her feet below the platform, looked up to her offering eyes with a
hunger in his face which she could not satisfy, and a desire which she
could not fulfil. His very asking for the other had been a refusal of
herself, and to be refused is a shame which no loving woman will accept
while love is living, and an insult which no strong woman forgives when
love is dead.

But neither the King nor the abbot heeded her as they walked along,
talking in Latin mixed with Norman French. The monk, not tall, slender,
spiritualized even in the remnant of his flesh, the incarnation of
believing thought and word, the exposition of matter's servitude to
mind, was the master; the King, heavy, strong, pale, obedient, was the
pupil, proving the existence of the greater force by his blind
submission to its laws. Beside them the Queen imaged the independence
of youthful life, believing without realizing, strong with blood, rich
with colour, fearing regret more than remorse, thoughtlessly cruel and
cruelly thoughtless, yet able to be very generous and brave.

The bell of Saint Mary's tolled three strokes, then four, then five,
then one, thirteen in all, and then rang backward for the ending day.
The sun had set a full half-hour and the dusk had almost drunk the
dregs of the red west. Bernard stood still, bareheaded in the way, with
folded hands, and began the Angelus Domini; the King from habit raised
his hand to take his cap from his head, and touched the golden crown
instead. Instantly a little colour of embarrassment rose in his pale
cheeks, and he stumbled over the familiar response as he clasped his
hands with downcast eyes, for in some ways he was a timid man. The
Queen stood still and spoke the words also, but neither the attitude of
her head nor the look in her eyes was changed, nor did she take her
hand from her belt to clasp it upon the other. The air was very soft