The jester felt that he could do nothing.
So long as she had seemed unconscious, he had tried to help her a little by supporting her head with his hand and arm, as tenderly as if she had been his own child.

So long as she did not know what he was doing, she was only a human being in distress, and a woman, and deep down in the jester's nature there was a marvellous depth of pity for all things that suffered--the deeper and truer because his own sufferings in the world were great.

But it was quite different now that she knew where she was and recognized him.

She was no longer a woman now, but a high-born lady, one of the Queen's maids of honour, a being infinitely far removed above his sphere, and whose hand he was not worthy to touch.

He would have dared to be much more familiar with the King himself than with this young girl whom fate had placed in his keeping for a moment.