During this dialogue the participants had been constantly changing their positions, De Courcy advancing and Frances retreating, keeping the table between them. The girl’s design was plain enough; she desired to hold him in conversation, gradually shifting her position, until she got between him and the door, when a sudden dash might give her freedom. But he easily fathomed this design and laughed as he checkmated it. At her last words, however, he drew himself upright, a look of genuine amazement overspreading his face. “When he is _free!_” he echoed. “Powers of Heaven! Then you have not come to reproach the King, but to plead with him!” “Why should I reproach him?” “It would surely be useless enough, but feminine. Why? Because Gregory Brandon, with one good stroke, severed the King’s word and Strafford’s neck on Tower Hill this morning.” The girl’s face went white as the kerchief about her throat, and, swaying half an instant, she leaned against the table for support. Something in the brutal method of the announcement convinced her of its truth more surely than if he had spoken with all the solemnity of which he might be capable. Yet she struggled not to believe. “You are lying to me,” she gasped. “Far from it, my little lady. How could I imagine you did not know? You are surely the only person in London who is ignorant of it. Why is everything so quiet near Whitehall, where the generous citizens have been so solicitous about us of late? Merely because the centre of interest has changed to the other end of the town, and a rare show was put on the stage for all good people to see, free of cost to themselves, unless they have the brains to know of what they are bereft by Strafford’s death, which is most unlikely.” As he spoke he had been edging toward her, catlike, but she paid no heed to him. Then with a spring he caught her wrists, but she did not move or make any effort to free herself. She looked dully at him, as if wondering why he acted so. “You will be pleased to withdraw yourself, sir, and let me go. My heart is broken.” She spoke with forced calmness, but there was a tremor in her tone that cast doubt on her former assertion regarding the tears. “Your heart is not broken, and if it was I’d mend it for you. Absurd! Why, you knew the man for scarce a day, and that time is full short for the growth of any large affection.” “I shall never love any as I have loved him.” “Tush! How little you know of yourself. You are a very goddess of love, and I will----” He released one wrist and endeavored to slip his disengaged arm about her waist. This seemed to rouse the girl from her stupor, for she suddenly thrust him back, and, taking him unaware, sent him sprawling; then she sprang for the door. But he was as nimble as she, for, quickly recovering himself, he held her tight before she could turn the key. “Sir, you forget who I am. Release me at once, and molest me no further.” “Divinest of the fair, I swear to you----”