Within the House of Lords all was ready for the opening of the Parliament. James, clothed in royal robes of State, and exchanging jests with his favorites, was lolling upon the throne. The peers were in their seats; some, deep in conversation, others, silently gazing at the gorgeous scene of which they were a part. At a table standing near the space before the throne, sat Lord Monteagle and his son, the latter engaged in arranging the notes of his speech on the bill which he was soon to bring before the House. Effingston seemed to be strangely nervous as the hour for his address drew near and his father had evidently made some jesting remark concerning his tremulous hand, when suddenly the attention of all was drawn toward the great doors at the extreme end of the room. Affected by the tumult, James turned impatiently to see who had dared disturb the solemnity of the hour. Those who were looking in that direction started with amazement. Through the open portal, flanked by its two rows of yeomen of the guard, advanced a slender girlish figure, with face white as marble and whose dark eyes sought the King. Clad in a gown of some soft gray stuff which had been torn open at the throat, revealing the gentle curve of the white bosom, the girl staggered up the long aisle leading to the throne. Between the fingers of the hand pressed above her heart showed a crimson stain which, touching the bodice of her dress, gradually spread itself upon the soft color. Amazed at so unwonted a spectacle the peers could only stare, transfixed. The girl had reached the space before the throne and stopped beside the table at which Effingston stood, who alone, of all the House, had started to his feet and confronted her. For one brief moment she gazed into his eyes, then stretched forth her hand. The white lips parted, she cried in a stifled voice: "My lords! flee the House ere----" The voice fell to a whisper, she reeled and sought to grasp the table for support. Effingston sprang toward her, but before he reached her side, her form sank slowly to the floor and lay at his feet. Unmindful of the presence of the King, and of his fellow peers, the young nobleman raised her in his arms. None beside Lord Monteagle heard him whisper:--"Elinor!" At her name the closed lids opened, and her lips parted in a faint smile. "My love!" she murmured faintly, her head sinking upon his shoulder like that of a tired child slowly falling to sleep. "I am guiltless--thou alone--'twas for thy sake----" A spasm of pain swept across her face; he felt a shudder shake the slender form, and a beseeching look sought his face. "I understand, my darling," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers. She sighed. A happy light shone in the fast glazing eyes. "Elinor!" he murmured. "One more word----" But God had taken her. CHAPTER XXII. FAWKES BEFORE THE KING.