He answered slowly: "I have seen your portrait. Hah, your portrait!"
he jeered, head flung back and big teeth glinting in the sunlight.
"There is a painter who merits crucifixion."
She considered this indicative of a cruel disposition, but also of a
fine taste in the liberal arts. Aloud she stated:
"You are not a Frenchman, messire. I do not understand how you can
have seen my portrait."
The man stood for a moment twiddling the fox-brush. "I am a harper, my
Princess. I have visited the courts of many kings, though never that
of France. I perceive I have been woefully unwise."
This trenched upon insolence--the look of his eyes, indeed, carried it
well past the frontier,--but she found the statement interesting.
Straightway she touched the kernel of those fear-blurred legends
whispered about Dom Manuel's reputed descendants.
"You have, then, seen the King of England?"
"Yes, Highness."
"Is it true that in him, the devil blood of Oriander has gone mad, and
that he eats children--like Agrapard and Angoulaffre of the Broken
Teeth?"
His gaze widened.
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