"Bring a chair for the fair maid to sit on. She hath travelled far to-day, and although she gives no sign of it, must be weary." A chair was placed close by where I stood, and Mistress Constance came and sat down as though she were the king's guest, rather than as a prisoner waiting to be judged. "We have heard strange things concerning you," said the king as she sat, and I saw that his black, beady eyes were still upon her, while his lips parted with a smile. "You see, however, that we are not very angry, and thus you are bidden to be seated in the king's presence." Mistress Constance did not speak at this, although each one there was silent, waiting, I doubt not, to hear what she might say. "In truth, so little are we angry," he went on, "especially after hearing of your brave deeds, that we would have you come and kiss our hand, rather than think of yourself as a prisoner." I think my heart almost stopped beating at this, for king though he was, his profligacy was freely spoken of, even by those who cared most for him, and it was torture beyond words to think of the woman I loved kneeling before him and kissing the hand which he would have extended. "I dare not so honour myself," said the maid quietly, and her voice seemed to me as music. "For while I greatly rejoice in Your Majesty's kindness, yet do I remember that I was taken from prison to be brought here, in which prison I have been immured for days." "This is strange," said the king with a smile, "for truly I do feel like granting you forgiveness for aught you have done, even before I hear what you may say in your own defence. Had I been a justice at Bedford the trial would have been short, and I doubt not but you would have been as free as the nightingale which sings among the trees yonder." Even as he spoke we could hear the song of the nightingale, for the windows were open, and the night was still. Moreover, so great was the silence in the room, save for the voice of the king, that one could have heard a pin drop. But Mistress Constance did not speak in answer to this, and in truth there seemed nought for her to say. I thought I saw Charles Stuart's face harden at her silence, and I fancied that he might be thinking of her father, as indeed I believe he was by the question which he next asked. "Your name is Mistress Constance Leslie, daughter of one John Leslie, who is by right of descent a baronet, although he useth not his title?" "Yes, Your Majesty." "I hear that you have a sister?" "Yes, sire." "And she is wedded, I hear, to one Sir Charles Denman?" She bowed as if in assent to this. "Is she your elder sister, or is she younger than you?" "She is older than I, sire." "Ah, I should have judged so. And right glad am I that you are not wedded to this plotting, sour-faced Puritan. That would have been indeed a sore pity. A clown with a travelling show might as well be wedded to a princess. Is your sister as fair as you?" "Fairer," replied Constance.