the lady duessa stood in the chapel of water-girded avalon, with fra balthasar the dominican beside her. she had slipped in without his noticing her, and had watched him awhile in silence at his work. the jingling of her chatelaine had brought him at last to a consciousness of her presence. now they stood together before the high altar and looked at the madonna seated on her throne of gold, amid choirs of angel women.

the lady duessa's intelligence had waxed critical on the subject.

"you have altered the virgin's face," she said.

balthasar stared at his handiwork and nodded.

"the former has been erased, the latter throned in her stead."

the words had more significance for the lady than the friar had perhaps intended. a better woman would have snubbed him for his pains. as it was, he saw her go red, saw the tense stare of her dark eyes, the tightening of the muscles of her jaw. she had a wondrous strong jaw, had the lady duessa. she was no mere puppet, no bright-eyed, fineried piece of plasticity. fra balthasar guessed the hot, passionate power of her soul; she was the very woman for the rough handling of a cause, such as the lord flavian her husband had roused against her.

"i suppose," she said, "this alteration was a matter of art, balthasar?"

"a matter of heart, madame."

"so?"

"my lord flavian commanded it."

"and yonder face is taken from life?"

"madame, i leave the inference to your charity."

she laughed a deep, cynical laugh, and went wandering round the chapel, looking at the frescoes, and swinging a little poniard by the chain that linked it to her girdle. balthasar made a pretence of mixing colours on his palette. worldly rogue that he was, he knew women, especially women of the lady duessa mould. he had a most shrewd notion as to what was passing in her mind. morally, he was her abettor, being a person who could always take a woman's part, provided she were pretty. he believed women had no business with religion. to balthasar, like fine glass, their frailty was their most enhancing characteristic. it gave such infinite scope to a discreet confessor.

the lady duessa strolled back again, and stood by the altar rails.

"am i such a plain woman?" she asked.

"madame!"

"you have never painted me."

"there are people above the artist's brush."

"but you paint the madonna."

"madame, the madonna is anybody's property."

"am i?"

"god forbid that a poet should speak lightly of beauty."

she laughed again, and touching her hair with her fingers, scanned herself in a little mirror that she carried at her girdle.

"tell me frankly, am i worth painting?"

"madame, that purple hair, those splendid eyes, the superb colour of those cheeks, would blaze out of a golden background as out of heaven."

she gave a musical little titter.

"heaven, heaven, ha--ha."

"i should be grateful for so transcendent a chance."

"and you would do me justice?"

"where inspiration burns, there art soars."

"you would be true?"

"to the chiselling of a coral ear."

"and discreet?"

"to the curve of a lip."

"and considerate?"

"my hands are subtle."

"and your heart?"

"is ingenuous as a little child's."

she laughed again, and held out her hands. balthasar kissed the white fingers, crowded with their gems. his eyes were warm as water in the sun; the colours and the glimmering richness of the chapel burnt into his brain.

"you shall paint me," she said.

"here, madame, here?"

"no, my own bower is pleasanter. you can reach it by my lord flavian's stair in the turret. here is the key; he never uses it now. avalon has not seen him these six days."

"madame, i will paint you as man never painted woman before."

dame duessa's bower was a broad chamber on the western walls, joining the south-western tower. a great oriel, jewelled with heraldic glass, looked over the mere with its dreaming lilies, over the green meadows to the solemn silence of the woods.

calypso's grotto! the bower of a luxurious lady in a luxurious age! the snuff of ind and araby tingled in balthasar's nostrils. the silks of china and bagdad, the cloths of italy, bloomed there; flowers crowded the window, the couches, every nook. blood-red hangings warmed the walls.

the lady duessa sat to balthasar in the oriel, with her lute upon her bosom. she was in azure and violet, with neck and bosom showing under a maze of gossamer gold. her arms were bare to the shoulder, white, gleaming arms, subtle, sinuous, voluptuous. her hair had been powdered with gold. her lips were wondrous red, her eyes dark as wells. musk and lavender breathed from her samites; her girdle glowed with precious stones.

fra balthasar sat on a stool inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory. an embroidery frame served him as an easel. the man was living under the many-constellationed vault of beauty. all the scent and floweriness of the room played on his brain; all the wealth of it pandered to his art; all the woman's splendour made molten wax of his being.

as he painted she sang to him, an old lay of arthurian love, so that he might catch the music in her eyes, and watch the deep notes gathering in her throat. he saw her bosom sway beneath her lace, saw the inimitable roundness of her arms. often his brush lingered. he might gaze upon the woman as he would, drink her beauty like so much violet wine, open his soul to the opulent summer of her power. his heart was in a sunset mood; he lived the life of a poet.

"and the green spring grew subtle," sang the dame,

"with song of birds and laughter, and the woods

were white for maying. so fair guinivere

loosed her long hair like rivulets of gold

that stream from the broad casement of the dawn.

and her sweet mouth was like one lovely rose,

and her white bosom like a bowl of flowers;

so wandered she with launcelot, while the wind

blew her long tresses to him, and her eyes

were as the tender azure of the night."

of such things sang duessa, while the friar spread his colours.

and then she questioned him.

"love you the old legends, balthasar?"

"madame, as i love life."

"ah! they could love in those old days."

"madame, men can love even now."

she put her lute aside, and knelt upon the couch before the window, with her elbows on the cushioned sill. her silks swept close upon her shapely back, her shoulders gleamed under her purple hair. in the west the world grew red; the crimson kisses of the sunset poured upon the ecstasied green woods. the mere was flaked with a myriad amber scales. the meadows broidered their broad laps with cowslips, as with dust of gold.

"balthasar."

"madame?"

"look yonder at the sunset. you must be tired of gazing on my face."

he rose up like one dazed--intoxicated by colours, sounds, and odours. duessa's hand beckoned him. he went and knelt on the couch at her side, and looked out over the flaming woods.

"and the other woman?" she said.

"the other woman?"

"this madonna of my lord's chapel."

"yes?"

"she amuses me; i am not jealous; what is jealousy to me? tell me about her, balthasar; no doubt it is a pretty tale, and you know the whole."

"i, madame?"

"i, duessa."

"but----"

"you are my lord flavian's friend; he was ever a man to be garrulous: he has been garrulous to you. tell me the whole tale."

"duessa!"

"better, better, my friend."

she put her hands upon his shoulders, and stared straight into his eyes. her lips overhung his like ripe red fruit. her arms were fragrant of myrrh and violet; her bosom was white as snow under the moon.

"can you refuse me this?"

"god, madame, i can refuse you nothing."