"Dearest," our Lady whispered, "did you ever love?" "Love!" Miss Temple's eyes went red. "What's love to me? Is this a time to think of love--to talk of love? Get to your prayers, child, this is no time for love." But our Lady urged her again. "Dearest, were you ever in love?" "In Heaven," Miss Temple was angry, "there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage. _The sun will be darkened, the moon shall not give her light, the powers of Heaven shall be shaken, the earth shall quake, the mountains shall fall, the heavens shall roll away like a scroll before the great and terrible day of the Lord_. This is a time for fasting, vigils, humiliation, prayer, not for profane thoughts of love." Margaret lay back among the pillows, releasing Miss Temple's hand. "I'm tired," she said, "so tired." Then of a sudden she started up alert, listening intently, her eyes upon the door, at which the old lady grumbled, asking what was the matter. "Don't you hear?" "The roar of fire, child, there's nothing else." "But I hear somebody coming--hush--listen." "The fall of some building perhaps." "There's somebody coming for me. I tell you somebody is coming--from Lyonesse--from him. Hark! There are footsteps." "Trooper Browne in the corridor. Be still, child; lie down and rest." But indeed there were footsteps, sounds of scuffling, of men disputing, and then the throwing open of a door. Through the length of the suite of rooms, Browne's voice rang out in warning. "Madam," he shouted, "I could not hold him back!" Men were trampling heavily through the rooms; even as her Majesty came down from the bed, the door of her chamber burst open--a man came reeling in, a trooper of the Guard, although his silver armour, rusted black, was drenched and stained with rain and mire, his face a mask of blood. He shouted hoarsely at the sight of her, then two Guardsmen following caught him in their arms, but he, struggling violently, broke away from them and fell at her very feet insensible. Her Majesty knelt down beside the man, and full of pity lifted his bleeding head. Sergeant Branscombe, standing at the salute, begged for the Queen's forgiveness. "Madam," he pleaded, "we could not hold him back." But she, in her white robe kneeling beside the man, pressed her small hands upon the spurting wound. "Who is he?" she asked, "Oh, surely not--my cousin, Lancaster! He will die! He will die!" "He is alive," Miss Temple's hands pressed hard upon his breast. "Quick, Sergeant Branscombe, water. You, trooper, bring the surgeon. What's this?" She found a strip of paper under the gorget. "A letter! Margaret, this is from Lyonesse!" And Margaret read the message. "In five days more I'll come with my ships. "JOHN BRAND." XX VICTORY "In five days more I'll come with my ships." Five days had passed since Brand's promise reached the Queen, it was the twenty-first of the Terror, and the master was not come.