He had come at full speed from Oxford. King Henry had ratified the great charter of English liberty. His master, the earl, and his friends would be home ere nightfall. The bridal must be upon the morrow. He had, moreover, private messages and tokens for the ladies, Idonea and Avice, from their coming bridegrooms. The messages were not for general ears; the love-tokens were a couple of golden crosses richly wrought and set with gems. Five rubies clustered in the centre of Sir Ralph’s gift to Idonea, five pearls in Sir Gilbert’s to Avice. They were dainty trinkets, but Avice took hers shrinkingly. “They seem like crosses set with tears and drops of blood,” she whispered, with white lips, to Idonea, who started, and, if she said “Tut, tut! they are precious tokens,” was not altogether unaffected by her sister’s superstitious dread. In answer to inquiries, the messenger replied that he “thought the Trent was rising. It was higher than when his lord had left Swarkstone.” It had been still lower at sunrise that day. Two hours later Friar John blew the horn at the gate. He and his mule were pitiably drenched. The Dove was swollen when he crossed the bridge near Egginton, he said, though the downpour did not come until he had left it five miles behind. “Now, heaven forfend there be not such a flood as swept Swark’s Stone away three summers back. The passage of the ford would be perilous to my lord now that is gone,” cried Lady Bellamont, wringing her hands, and it might seem with reason, for now the floodgates of the skies were loosed, and heaven’s artillery waged war with earth. “Storms and travellers are in Almighty hands, good dame,” said Prior John, soberly. “Tell your beads devoutly, and trust your all to Him.” Avice and Idonea, with other damsels and dames, were already on their knees in prayer, their hearts beating wildly. William Harpur, pacing up and down, glanced through the dim glass windows on the scene without, and then from one to other of the shuddering women within. “I think, Prior John,” he observed, with a slight curl of lip, “it will be a sorry welcome for my noble kinsman and his friends when they come in, wet and weary, if no board be spread, no dry garments ready for their use.” The taunt seemed to sting the good dame. “Storm or no storm, Will, my lord shall not find us unprepared. Maidens, attend me.” And she swept from the tapestried reception-room, followed by her daughters and the noble maids who did probationary service under her, and soon her silver whistle might be heard, as one or other did her bidding, and all below-stairs was speed and bustle—and covert fear. The hours sped. The storm seemed to abate. The board was spread. The time for the evening meal came and went. There were no arrivals. There were whisperings among hungry guests, for time was flying. Squire Harpur paced the rush-strewn floor impatiently, biting his nails and cogitating.