"Luckless girl, indeed!" replied Richard of Woodville; "from her infancy unfortunate! And yet men thought that the hand of Heaven had showered upon her its choicest gifts: beauty, wealth, kind friends, and a noble heart to love her, if she would but have welcomed it. But, alas! Harry, the crowning gift of all was wanting: a spirit that could use God's blessings aright." "It was more the fault of others than her own," said Sir Harry Dacre, "that I do believe. Her mother made her what she was! 'Tis sad! 'tis very sad, Richard, that, at the period when we have no power to form ourselves, each weak fool who approaches us can give us some bad gift which we never can cast off." "Like the evil fairies at a child's birth," answered Richard of Woodville; "and certainly her mother was a bad demon to her; but still, though I would not speak ill of those who are gone, yet poor Kate received the gifts willingly enough, destructive as they were. Would to Heaven it had been otherwise; but others encouraged her in all that was wrong, as well as her mother. This man, Roydon, was no good counsellor for a lady's ear." The brow of Sir Henry Dacre grew dark as night. "He is a scoundrel," he cried; "he is a scoundrel; and if ever he gives me the chance of having him at my lance's point, he or I shall go to that place where all men's actions are made clear.--Oh! that I knew the truth, Richard! Oh! that I knew the truth!" "There is One who knows it," answered Richard of Woodville, "who never suffers foul deeds to rest in darkness. Trust to Him: and if this knave does but support his charge, perhaps your lance may be the avenging instrument of Heaven." "May it be so," replied the knight; "but I doubt it, Richard. True, he has not shown himself a coward in the field; and yet I cannot but think that he is craven at heart. Saw you not how carefully his letter to Sir Philip was worded? how he insinuated more than he dared say? and, then, why did he not come?--A sickness, forsooth! The excuse of an idle schoolboy. He would not face me,--that is the truth. He fears me, Richard, and will not dare the test of battle." "Well, that we shall soon see," answered his companion; "your messenger must be at my house, by this time, with his reply." "I trust so," said Dacre, thoughtfully; "yet he will take time to write carefully, believe me. His will be no rash epistle, written in fiery anger at his cousin's death. No, no; it will be done as if a scrivener had dictated every word, and in a courtly hand. But whatever he does, mark me, he will leave the poison behind, and so calculate as to cast suspicion over me for life." "But who suspects you, Dacre?" asked Richard of Woodville, with a smile; "not one honest man on earth. You are too well known, for doubts to light upon you. Does not Sir Philip, her own uncle, love you as a son? and can you let the idle words of a knave, like this, disturb your peace?"