Now had this boy
and his mother (the same Queen Ysabeau about whom I have told you in
the preceding tale) come as suppliants to the court of that stalwart
nobleman Sire William (Count of Hainault, Holland, and Zealand, and
Lord of Friesland), where their arrival had evoked the suggestion that
they depart at their earliest convenience. To-morrow, then, these
footsore royalties, the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales,
would be thrust out-of-doors to resume the weary beggarship, to knock
again upon the obdurate gates of this unsympathizing king or that deaf
emperor.
Accordingly the boy aspersed his destiny. At hand a nightingale
carolled as though an exiled prince were the blithest spectacle the
moon knew.
There came through the garden a tall girl, running, stumbling in her
haste. "Hail, King of England!" she said.
"Do not mock me, Philippa!" the boy half-sobbed. Sulkily he rose to
his feet.
"No mockery here, my fair sweet friend. No, I have told my father all
which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very
closely.
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