Margaret was asleep. All curled up, her dear head resting on one outstretched arm, fairily delicate she lay at peace. The lines of sorrow were smoothed away, her eyes--a moment ago so big, so dark with horror--were veiled now with the eyelids of a child. Down through the lurid shadow of the room, flamelight played and flickered, glowed on the ivory pallor of her skin, and made a dainty mimicry of health. She seemed the Margaret of other days, Queen of the May, our Lady of the Spring, before love kindled and grief aged her heart. Hush! The child sleeps, and the woman must wake to pain. If you would know the measure of a woman, judge not by her virtues, neither by her sins--God will judge these. How much did she love? How much did men worship her? The love that men bore to Helen, Cleopatra, Guinevere, illumine the history of nations, as it changed the rhythm of their times. How have men worshipped Elizabeth, and Victoria, and Margaret, each in her time, the Queen of all men's love? The conquerors laid Empires at their feet. The holy ideal of chivalric worship inspired the noblest literature, the highest art and the profoundest learning. Whole eras are illuminated by the glamour and the glory of such unselfish homage, that could bind men together, sweeten the common life, sanctify duty, and make death a rite. Hush! England sleeps! The spirits of the slain, hovering in the flamelight and the lurid green-grey shadows, are pleading to God that He will have compassion on the Queen. With savage satisfaction, Miss Temple watched. Margaret asleep at last! For a minute, for two minutes, then our Lady's voice rang loud through the room. "Lyonesse!" she cried. "Lyonesse!" And starting broad awake, lifted herself in the bed, her gaunt face beaded with sweat, her dark eyes staring broad awake. Then she fell back with a moan, and clutched at Miss Temple's hands, and held them fast. "Oh, why did you let me sleep?" she whispered. "I fought so hard to keep awake." "You must have sleep or you'll lose your senses, child." "I dared not sleep," said Margaret, trembling, "lest I should see him dead!" "Margaret, these fancies are dangerous." "This is the fourth time, dearest. He was in a little ship, so small you could have put it in this room, and far down underneath, river, and lake, and forest streaming past. He was all alone, the blood-stained bandage loose about his head, and he lay in his harness dead, except for his eyes. Only his eyes were alive watching me, speaking to me." Miss Temple read the rest in Margaret's eyes, and turned her face away lest the Queen should see. Even as the desert hungers for the rain, so Margaret craved for Brand. She could not tell Miss Temple that she loved him; the wise old governess pretended not to know, and thus the secret was shared by two sweet women with delicate reticence and understanding, marred by no words while every word would hurt.