In a moment the tall form of Raynor Royk stalked out from the throng, and halting in the open he raised his halberd in salute. "Hew me off the spurs from yonder fellow," the King ordered, with a move of his hand toward the condemned. Saluting again, the old soldier strode over and with two sharp blows of his weapon struck the golden insignia of Knighthood from Lord Darby's heels. Nor did Darby make resistance; but with arms folded on his breast he suffered it to be done, though his bosom heaved in the fierce struggle to be calm, and the flush left his face and it grew gray and drawn, and bitter agony looked out from his eyes. And many turned away their heads. And on the dais the Countess had faced about, and the Queen and she were softly weeping. Lifting the spurs from the pavement Raynor Royk held them up. "The order is executed, Sire," he said. "Fling them into the ditch," the King commanded. "They, too, are stained with dishonor." Then in tones cold and passionless, and wherein there was no shade of mercy, he went on: "And now, Henry Darby--for Lord and Knight you are no longer--you have suffered penalty for one crime, hear the judgment for the other: As false to your oath of fealty and traitor to your King, the sentence is that you be taken hence to Tyburn and there hanged by the neck until dead--and may the Lord Omnipotent have pity on your soul. Remove him." "Come," said Raynor Royk, and led him through the crowd, which drew shudderingly aside to give him passage. And Darby--stunned by the stern justice that had sent him to die a common felon on Tyburn Tree, instead of as a Lord and Peer of England, on the block on Tower Hill--went with dazed brain and silently; and ere his faculties returned, he was among the guards in the rear. Then with a sudden twist he turned about and shouted with all his voice: "Long live Henry Tudor!" It was his last defiance. The next instant he was dragged outside and the doors swung shut behind him; while from all the Court went up the answering cry: "Long live Plantagenet! God save the King!" And when silence came the Countess and De Lacy were gone. "So," said Sir Aymer, as Beatrix and he reached the quiet of the Queen's apartments, "your troubles end--the sun shines bright again." The Countess sank into a chair and drew him on the arm beside her. "My troubles ended when you crossed the courtyard of Roxford," she replied, taking his hand in both her own, "but yours have not begun." "Wherefore, sweetheart?" he asked. "I thought mine, too, had ended there." "No," with a shake of the ruddy head . . . "no. . . Your heaviest troubles are yet to come." He looked at her doubtfully. . . "And when do they begin?" She fell to toying with her rings and drawing figures on her gown. "That is for you to choose," she said, with a side-long glance. . . "Next year, may be, . . . to-morrow, if you wish." "You mean------?" he cried.