“All of it, your Majesty,” answered Margaret, “and we have suffered much for each other’s sake.” Then in as few words as she could she told their tale, while the queen listened earnestly. “A strange story indeed, and if it be all true, a shameful,” she said when Margaret had finished. “But how comes it that if Morella desired to force you into marriage, he is now wed to your companion and cousin? What are you keeping back from me?” and she glanced at her shrewdly. “Your Majesty,” answered Margaret, “I was ashamed to speak the rest, yet I will trust you and do so, praying your royal forgiveness if you hold that we, who were in desperate straits, have done what is wrong. My cousin, Betty Dene, has paid back Morella in his own false gold. He won her heart and promised to marry her, and at the risk of her own life she took my place at the altar, thereby securing our escape.” “A brave deed, if a doubtful,” said the queen, “though I question whether such a marriage will be upheld. But that is a matter for the Church to judge of, and I must speak of it no more. Certainly it is hard to be angry with any of you. What did you say that Morella promised you when he asked you to marry him in London?” “Your Majesty, he promised that he would lift me high, perhaps even”—and she hesitated—“to that seat in which you sit.” Isabella frowned, then laughed, and said, as she looked her up and down: “You would fit it well, better than I do in truth. But what else did he say?” “Your Majesty, he said that not every one loves the king, his uncle; that he had many friends who remembered that his father was poisoned by the father of the king, who was Morella’s grandfather; also, that his mother was a princess of the Moors, and that he might throw in his lot with theirs, or that there were other ways in which he could gain his end.” “So, so,” said the queen. “Well, though he is such a good son of the Church, and my lord is so fond of him, I never loved Morella, and I thank you for your warning. But I must not speak to you of such high matters, though it seems that some have thought otherwise. Fair Margaret, have you aught to ask of me?” “Yes, your Majesty—that you will deal gently with my true love when he comes before you for trial, remembering that he is hot of head and strong of arm, and that such knights as he—for knightly is his blood— cannot brook to see their ladies mishandled by rough men, and the wrappings that shield them torn from off their bosoms. Also, I pray that I may be protected from Morella, that he may not be allowed to touch or even to speak to me, who, for all his rank and splendour, hate him as though he were some poisoned snake.”