The seneschal marched before her all the length of the hall to where there was a large fireplace with a burning log, summer though it was, and shut off by handsome tapestried and carved screens sat a half circle of ladies, with a young-looking lady in a velvet fur-trimmed surcoat in their midst. A tall man with a keen, resolute face, in long robes and gold belt and chain, stood by her leaning on her chair. The seneschal announced, “Place, place for the Lady Grisell Dacre of Whitburn,” and Grisell bent low, putting back as much of her veil as she felt courtesy absolutely to require. The lady rose, the knight held out his hand to raise the bending figure. He had that power of recollection and recognition which is so great an element in popularity. “The Lady Grisell Dacre,” he said. “She who met with so sad a disaster when she was one of my lady mother’s household?” Grisell glowing all over signed acquiescence, and he went on, “Welcome to my poor house, lady. Let me present you to my wife.” The Countess of Warwick was a pale, somewhat inane lady. She was the heiress of the Beauchamps and De Spensers in consequence of the recent death of her brother, “the King of the Isle of Wight”—and through her inheritance her husband had risen to his great power. She was delicate and feeble, almost apathetic, and she followed her husband’s lead, and received her guest with fair courtesy; and Grisell ventured in a trembling voice to explain that she had spent those years at Wilton, but that the new Abbess’s Proctor would not consent to her remaining there any longer, not even long enough to send to her parents or to the Countess of Salisbury. “Poor maiden! Such are the ways of his Holiness where the King is not man enough to stand in his way,” said Warwick. “So, fair maiden, if you will honour my house for a few days, as my lady’s guest, I will send you north in more fitting guise than with this white-smith dame.” “She hath been very good to me,” Grisell ventured to add to her thanks. “She shall have good entertainment here,” said the Earl smiling. “No doubt she hath already, as Sarum born. See that Goodwife Hall, the white smith’s wife, and her following have the best of harbouring,” he added to his silver-chained steward. “You are a Dacre of Whitburn,” he added to Grisell. “Your father has not taken sides with Dacre of Gilsland and the Percies.” Then seeing that Grisell knew nothing of all this, he laughed and said, “Little convent birds, you know nought of our worldly strifes.”