free passage to their thrones. Cecil Castlemaine stood within the window of her bower-room, the red light of the October sun glittering on her gold-broidered skirt and her corsage sewn with opals and emeralds; her hand was pressed lightly on her bosom, as though some pain were throbbing there; it was new this unrest, this weariness, this vague weight that hung upon her; it was the perils of their Cause, she told herself; the risks her father ran: it was weak, childish, unworthy a Castlemaine! Still the pain throbbed there. Her hound, asleep beside her, raised his head with a low growl as a step intruded on the sanctity of the bower-room, then composed himself again to slumber, satisfied it was no foe. His mistress turned slowly; she knew the horses waited; she had shunned this ceremony of farewell, and never thought any would be bold enough to venture here without permission sought and gained. "Lady Cecil, I could not go upon my way without one word of parting. Pardon me if I have been too rash to seek it here." Why was it that his brief frank words ever pleased her better than Belamour's most honeyed phrases, Millamont's suavest periods? She scarcely could have told, save that there were in them an earnestness and truth new and rare to her ear and to her heart. She pressed her hand closer on the opals--the jewels of calamity--and smiled: "Assuredly I wish you God speed, Sir Fulke, and safe issue from all perils." He bowed low; then raised himself to his fullest height, and stood beside her, watching the light play upon the opals: "That is all you vouchsafe me?" "_All?_ It is as much as you would claim, sir, is it not? It is more than I would say to many." "Your pardon--it _is_ more than I should claim if prudence were ever by, if reason always ruled! I have no right to ask for, seek for, even wish for, more; such petitions may only be addressed by men of wealth and of high title; a landless soldier should have no pride to sting, no heart to wound; they are the prerogative of a happier fortune." Her lips turned white, but she answered haughtily; the crimson light flashing in her jewels, heirlooms priceless and hereditary, like her beauty and her pride: "This is strange language, sir! I fail to apprehend you." "You have never thought that I ran a danger deadlier than that which I have ever risked on any field? You have never guessed that I have had the madness, the presumption, the crime--it may be in your eyes--to love you." The color flushed to her face, crimsoning even her brow, and then fled back. Her first instinct was insulted pride--a beggared gentleman, a landless soldier, spoke to her of love!--of love!--which Belamour had barely had courage to whisper of; which none had dared to sue of her in return. He had ventured to feel this for her! he had ventured to speak of this to her! The Envoy saw the rising resentment, the pride spoken in every line of her delicate face, and stopped her as she would have spoken.