“Sir Robert Knollys, and you, my Lord of Salisbury, I swear that no dishonour shall live when I can drive it forth. I will go through with this to the end. Who knows but that out of deep shame honour may rise re-born and valiant?” She rose from her chair. “Come with me to the King’s chamber to-night. Let Fulk Ferrers be ready without the door. I will see this great wrong righted.” They stood with bowed heads as she left them there in the garden. CHAPTER XL The King had supped and was playing at “tables” with one of his gentlemen. The room was hung with blue arras, covered with lions rampant in gold. The sun had long set, and a soft, blue-black sky showed through the open window, with here and there a star showing. Candles burnt in sconces on the walls, and the floor was littered with rushes and sweet herbs. A page came in, a child with flaxen hair. “Sire, Madame the Princess would see you. She is in the great gallery, and coming hither.” Richard was not pleased. “Bid her come, little fool. Sit you still, Falconbridge; we play on.” They were intent on the game when the Princess entered, and Richard did not raise his eyes to see that Knollys and Salisbury were with her. Knollys had closed the door, and they stood gazing at the King. “Richard!” There was such a whipping sharpness in her voice that the King looked up startled, and saw Salisbury and Knollys. Nor did their grim faces please him. “Ah, my Lord of Salisbury!” “Falconbridge, leave us.” “Madame—mother, the game is not done.” She stepped forward, swept the pieces off the board, her face like stone. Falconbridge rose incontinently and went out, pushing past Fulk, who was standing in the passage. “What means all this?” “Son, there are words to be spoken between us, words that I for one would gladly not hear.” He looked at her uneasily. “What spoil-sport business is this?” She stretched out a closed hand, and, opening her fingers suddenly, showed the ring lying in her palm. “Richard, this was lost to you. Take back your own.” They were watching him, and they saw his lower lip loosen, his eyes grow shallow with a kind of fear. “That ring of mine! I had mislaid it.” He was lying, and his flaccid face betrayed him. “Mislaid! That is a word to use! Mislaid! Soul of my God, it is your honour that you have mislaid!” He tried to bluster. “What foolery is this? I lose a ring, and strange words come back with it.” “Tell me, son, how did you lose the ring to the grey friar? How came it that a certain man was betrayed? How was it that your ring wrought murder?” He was white to the lips now. “It is false.” She saw him shrink and falter, and a bitter, scornful cry escaped from her. “Son, son, you shame me to the death; but by the fear of God that is in me I will bring you down into the dust. For out of the dust you must rise. Let Fulk Ferrers come to us.”