She said: "I had forgotten. I had remembered only you, Antoine, and
Navarre, and the clean-eyed Navarrese--" Now for a little, Jehane
paced the gleaming and sun-drenched apartment as a bright leopardess
might tread her cage. Then she wheeled. "Friend, I think that God
Himself has deigned to avenge you. All misery my reign has been. First
Hotspur, then prim Worcester harried us. Came Glyndwyr afterward to
prick us with his devils' horns. Followed the dreary years that linked
me to the rotting corpse which God's leprosy devoured while the poor
furtive thing yet moved, and endured its share in the punishment of
Manuel's poisonous blood. All misery, Antoine! And now I live beneath
a sword."
"You have earned no more," he said. "You have earned no more, O
Jehane! whose only title is the Constant Lover!" He spat it out.
She came uncertainly toward him, as though he had been some not
implacable knave with a bludgeon. "For the King hates me," she
plaintively said, "and I live beneath a sword. The big, fierce-eyed
boy has hated me from the first, for all his lip-courtesy.
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