Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers, and then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too strong a test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his friendship even.” He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the gallery, where the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the coranto. He sought the Duke at once. His grace was standing near Mistress Barbara’s chair, watching with amusement a discussion of the rival claims of the Earl of St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon her clemency for the dance. “Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the coranto.” “With _la belle_ Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.” “A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon the Duke. Ferrers made way; he did not see the figure at the heels of Dorset. “Madame,” said his grace, with a noble flourish of the arm, “I present to you a gentleman of fine distinction in Germany and England, a gallant captain in the Marine of France--René Bras-de-Fer--Monsieur le Chevalier Mornay.” During the prelude she had sat complaisantly, a queen in the center of her court. But as Mornay came forward she arose and drew herself to her splendid height, looking at the Frenchman coldly, her lips framed for the words she would have uttered. But Monsieur Mornay spoke first. “Madame,” he said, quietly, his hand upon his heart, “I am come for the coranto.” She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no sound came from her lips. “Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger--“monsieur--” Mornay affected not to hear her. “The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has promised me the coranto.” “’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her. “It is the pardon, madame.” That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over the writing. “Clemency--thief--murderer--Nick Rawlings--pardon?--a pardon for _me_, monsieur?” Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled. “Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. _Voilà!_ Here is the pardon. There is the _musique_. Will madame not dance?” A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply. The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red by turns as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to her breast to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips. Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them, but Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress Clerke break her silence.