The deep earnest gaze of his hazel eyes and his soft brown hair, clearly indicated his Norman extraction, and when he passed his arm half-fearfully, half-protectingly around his mother's neck, and the eloquent blood mounted to his cheek Eleanor recognized the princely bearing of the Plantagenets. "False woman," said she, darting forward and confronting the trembling mother with flashing eyes, "thou art the paramour of King Henry, and these your base-born progeny." To the paleness of terror succeeded the flush of indignation not unmingled with the crimson hue of shame, as the fair creature raised her head and repelled the accusation. "Rosamond de Clifford is not King Henry's paramour. My lord is the Duke of Maine; and when he returns from the wars will acknowledge his babes before the nobles of the land." "Aye, the Duke of Maine," retorted Eleanor, in scornful mockery, "and of Anjou, and of Normandy, and through his injured queen lord of the seven beautiful provinces of the south. Thy white face has won a marvellous conquest. The arch-dissimulator boasts many titles, but one that bars all thy claims. He is the _husband_ of Eleanor of Aquitaine!" "Becket! where is Becket, why comes not my friend and counsellor?" exclaimed Rosamond in the accents of despair, as a conviction of the truth flashed upon her mind. "Dead," replied the infuriated woman, approaching nearer and speaking in a hoarse whisper. "Henry brooks no rival in his path, nor will Eleanor." The implied threat and fierce gestures warned Rosamond of her danger, and clasping her frightened children to her breast, she sank down at the feet of the queen in the utmost terror and abasement. "Heaven assoil thee of thy sin," said Eleanor, turning to depart, "at dawn we meet again." CHAPTER VI. "Oh! think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods; Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Fill'd up with horror, and big with death."