"No, for you envy a great spirit and your envy makes you a base thing."
Noel protested pettishly:
"He is no man-angel. He is made of Adam's clay like the rest of us."
Katherine's thoughts had wandered away from her escort; her mind's eyes were busy with waving banners, the shock of meeting lances, the glitter of steel coats and the beating of steel upon steel. Through all the melley, her fancy spied one shining figure in bright armour like, so it seemed to her, Archangel Michael or Archangel Gabriel, riding in the pride of the fight with a smile on his lips, sorrow in his heart, and a token of white ribbon between his breast-plate and his breast.
She answered, not Noel's words, but her thoughts:
"My pride has the right to hate him, but I think he is still my soul's man."
Noel was about to speak again, when he suddenly fell back and doffed his bonnet. Perched on the steps of the church stood the stooped sable figure of the king, just coming from his matinal devotions. In the shadow behind him stood his shadows—Tristan and Olivier.
Katherine, her attention swerved by Noel's glance, turned and swayed a reverence to Louis as
