news of the King. As for my news, the body is but too well; but the spirit, I cannot deny it, remembers that which is left behind. Do you know that all night long I held the king's hand, and would not rouse myself in the morning, so as to have that pleasure a little longer? I try to take this departure as well as I can; but succour me with news of him as often as you may. Let me hear some good news—if you have any to tell."
That morning of discouragement and poignant regret was the first of many such days. She can think of nothing but the brother she has left. She encounters Brion, going with news from the frontier to the King. "Would to God," she cries, "that it were I returning! My speed would be nowise Brionnicque." But every day takes her farther and farther away. At last she writes to the brother whom, after all her pains, she has left unaided, and beseeches him to let her return and bare his danger. She writes vaguely and strangely, feeling the risk to Francis if her letters fall into the secret and suspicious hands of Charles:—
"Sire,
"That which you were pleased to write me, saying you would tell me further, has made me go on; hoping, moreover, that you would not leave the straight road, and flee from them who, for all their happiness, only desire to see you, though worse off than before." (Is this a last prayer to give up Burgundy and be free?) "Let my intention be prescribed, if you should ever need the honest and ancient service which I have borne and bear to your good grape. And if the perfect imperfection of a hundred thousand faults make you disdain my obedience—then, at
