"But Fatima, Fatima, how fares she?" Romane continued. "Since Lammas
was a twelvemonth, I hear nought of her; my letters are unanswered.
The postman hath traversed our camp every day, and never brought me a
billet. How is Fatima, Philibert de Coquelicot?"
"She is--well," Philibert replied; "her sister Anne is the fairest of
the twain, though."
"Her sister Anne was a baby when I embarked for Egypt. A plague on
sister Anne! Speak of Fatima, Philibert--my blue-eyed Fatima!"
"I say she is--well," answered his comrade gloomily.
"Is she dead? Is she ill? Hath she the measles? Nay, hath she had the
small-pox, and lost her beauty? Speak; speak, boy!" cried the knight,
wrought to agony.
"Her cheek is as red as her mother's, though the old Countess paints
hers every day. Her foot is as light as a sparrow's, and her voice as
sweet as a minstrel's dulcimer; but give me nathless the Lady Anne,"
cried Philibert; "give me the peerless Lady Anne! As soon as ever I have
won spurs, I will ride all Christendom through, and proclaim her the
Queen of Beauty. Ho, Lady Anne! Lady Anne!" and so saying--but evidently
wishing to disguise some emotion, or conceal some tale his friend could
ill brook to hear--the reckless damoiseau galloped wildly forward.
But swift as was his courser's pace, that of his companion's enormous
charger was swifter.
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