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“Then aid me, Osmund,” she said; and he answered with a gravity which singularly became him:

“You have reason to understand that to my fullest power I will aid you.”

“You know that at Lewes these swine overcame us.” He nodded assent. “And now they hold the King my husband captive at Kenilworth. I am content that he remain there, for he is of all the King’s enemies the most dangerous. But, at Wallingford, Leicester has imprisoned my son, Prince Edward. The Prince must be freed, my Osmund. Warren de Basingbourne commands what is left of the royal army, now entrenched at Bristol, and it is he who must liberate him. Get me to Bristol, then. Afterward we will take Wallingford.” The Queen issued these orders in cheery, practical fashion, and did not admit opposition into the account, for she was a capable woman.

“But you, madame?” he stammered. “You came alone?”

“I come from France, where I have been entreating–and vainly entreating–succor from yet another monkish king, the pious Lewis of that realm. Eh, what is God about when He enthrones these cowards, Osmund? Were I a king, were I even a man, I would drive these smug English out of their foggy isle in three days’ space! I would leave alive not one of these curs that dare yelp at me! I would–” She paused, the sudden anger veering into amusement. “See how I enrage myself when I think of what your people have made me suffer,” the Queen said, and shrugged her shoulders. “In effect, I skulked back to this detestable island in disguise, accompanied by Avenel de Giars and Hubert Fitz-Herveis. To-night some half-dozen fellows–robbers, thorough knaves, like all you English,–suddenly attacked us on the common yonder and slew the men of our party. While they were cutting de Giars’ throat I slipped away in the dark and tumbled through many ditches till I spied your light. There you have my story. Now get me an escort to Bristol.”

It was a long while before Messire Heleigh spoke. Then, “These men,” he said–“this de Giars and this Fitz-Herveis–they gave their lives for yours, as I understand it,–pro caris amicis. And yet you do not grieve for them.”

“I shall regret de Giars,” the Queen said, “for he made excellent songs. But Fitz-Herveis?–foh! the man had a face like a horse.” Then again her mood changed. “Many men have died for me, my friend. At first I wept for them, but now I am dry of tears.”

He shook his head. “Cato very wisely says, ‘If thou hast need of help, ask it of thy friends.’ But the sweet friend that I remember was a clean-eyed girl, joyous and exceedingly beautiful. Now you appear to me one of those ladies of remoter times–Faustina, or Jael, or Artemis, the King’s wife of Tauris,–they that slew men, laughing. I am somewhat afraid of you, madame.”

She was angry at first; then her face softened. “You English!” she said, only half mirthful. “Eh, my God! you remember me when I was happy. Now you behold me in my misery. Yet even now I am your Queen, messire, and it is not yours to pass judgment upon me.”

“I do not judge you,” he hastily returned. “Rather I cry with him of old, Omnia incerta ratione! and I cry with Salomon that he who meddles with the strife of another man is like to him that takes a hound by the ears. Yet listen, madame and Queen. I cannot afford you an escort to Bristol. This house, of which I am in temporary charge, is Longaville, my brother’s manor. And Lord Brudenel, as you doubtless know, is of the barons’ party and–scant cause for grief!–with Leicester at this moment. I can trust none of my brother’s people, for I believe them to be of much the same opinion as those Londoners who not long ago stoned you and would have sunk your barge in Thames River. Oh, let us not blink the fact that you are not overbeloved in England. So an escort is out of the question. Yet I, madame, if you so elect, will see you safe to Bristol.”