"And here is the other," he said, laying the crumpled bit of cloth beside the note, which by now Rocelia had finished reading. "This may go to feed the blaze," he added with a light laugh, tossing the note into the fire. "The other ... may I have it now from thy dear hand? I would renew my knightly vows." "But thou art now a king ... and may not," she gave Sir Richard answer, he thought in a tone and manner of sadness and regret. Suddenly she took it up then and thrust it quickly within the lace at her bosom. "But I am not a king, Rocelia ... or ever shall be," Sir Richard protested. "That bit of yellow cloth it was that kept me posting back and forth above this barren, dreary country. It drew, and held me willing prisoner here. Now I have lost it. To-morrow I will go." "But, no!" said she, "how canst thou leave when everything is waiting? Already hast thou been proclaimed." "Everything was waiting before I came," he answered. "When I am gone 'twill be as though Richard Rohan had never been. As to the proclamation ... 'twas but a thing of empty words. I played the king here, because thou wert of my kingdom. An I have not thee for subject, I am no longer monarch. To-morrow, I say, I take my leave of Scotland." "But, pray you, not to-morrow ... Richard," cried Rocelia aloud, clutching at the cloth upon the table. There was a look in her eyes that brought the young man bounding to his feet. He had meant to gather her within his arms. But he swiftly interpreted her frightened backward glance in sufficient season to transform the gesture into a sweeping bow. Grandam Sutherland had but just awakened, and was blinking at the two after a confused fashion. She had been aroused by Rocelia's cry. "God's mercy upon us!" exclaimed the old lady; "it must be near upon the stroke of eleven?" "An the weather hold, we'll walk to-morrow morning?" said Sir Richard, taking Rocelia's hand. "To-morrow morning, sire," she answered, softly pressing his fingers. The young knight slept no wink that night because of the tender caress. CHAPTER XXV OF THE END OF THE RED TAVERN AND ITS FITTING EPITAPH A score of times during the next morning Sir Richard berated the sun for a laggard orb. When he was not stationed in front of his narrow window gazing out upon the reddening sky, the filmy rags of undulating mist floating above the moor, and the round summits of the downs blushing rosily above them, he would be polishing up his gear and industriously brushing the kinks out of his horse-hair plume. In lieu of a Venetian glass, he trimmed his beard to a proper point by reflecting his image against his glittering breast-plate, which he hung from a nail in the wall beside the window.