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About them fell the dying leaves, of many glorious colors, but the air of this new day seemed raw and chill, what while, very calmly, Dame Ysabeau took Sir Gregory’s hand and laid it upon the hand of Rosamund Eastney. “Our paladin is, in the outcome, a mortal man, and therefore I do not altogether envy you. Yet he has his moments, and you are capable. Serve, then, not only his desires but mine also, dear Rosamund.”

There was a silence. The girl spoke as though it was a sacrament. “I will, madame and Queen.”

Thus did the Queen end her holiday.

A little later the Countess of Farrington rode from Ordish with all her train save one; and riding from that place, where love was, she sang very softly, and as to herself.

Sang Ysabeau:

“As with her dupes dealt Circe
Life deals with hers, pardie!
Reshaping without mercy,
And shaping swinishly,
To wallow swinishly,
And for eternity–

“Though, harder than the witch was,
Life, changing ne’er the whole,
Transmutes the body, which was
Proud garment of the soul,
And briefly drugs the soul,
Whose ruin is her goal–

“And means by this thereafter
A subtler mirth to get,
And mock with bitterer laughter
Her helpless dupes’ regret,
Their swinish dull regret
For what they half forget.”

And within the hour came Hubert Frayne to Ordish, on a foam-specked horse, as he rode to announce to the King’s men the King’s barbaric murder overnight, at Berkeley Castle, by Queen Ysabeau’s order.

“Ride southward,” said Lord Berners, and panted as they buckled on his disused armor; “but harkee, Frayne! if you pass the Countess of Farrington’s company, speak no syllable of your news, since it is not convenient that a lady so thoroughly and so praiseworthily–Lord, Lord, how I have fattened!–so intent on holy things, in fine, should have her meditations disturbed by any such unsettling tidings. Hey, son-in-law?”

Sir Gregory Darrell laughed, and very bitterly. “He that is without blemish among you–” he said. Then they armed completely.