"You know I haven't. Hello! what's this? Oho! So there should be a _de_ before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the world did the Purple Emperor----"
"All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode to Saladin's tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louis? or shall I read about--what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black and white--about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva's eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It's all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?"
"He dropped the _de_, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans," said Lys--"all except me."
"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and I raised my wine-glass and looked at Lys.
"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.
After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His Majesty shall be amused."
"Who knows?" murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh.
"I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Do you, Lys?"
"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the were-wolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me! I know lots more."
"You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his Majesty English."
"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I--"big green lizards from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec----"
"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king--my king."
"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistère.
I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.
"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field----"
"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in that book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army."