"Richard ... dear Dick," she whispered afterward, when it came to parting for the night, "since learning of all these base intrigues, these petty jealousies, these crafty plottings and counter-plottings, I am no whit sorry to see you leaving them all behind you. I would rather that my king should sit ever upon a three-legged stool than upon a velvet-tufted and silken-canopied throne won after these wicked fashions." They were out betimes the next morning, albeit the day was none of the pleasantest; a thick fog having set in from the sea during the night. As they moved slowly over the downs Sir Richard remarked that the members of their little party seemed like gray and misty shadows moving against a pearly cloud. Before the middle of the day they drew near the little hut where de Claverlok and Isabel would doubtless be waiting. It was fair blotted out in the mist, but Sir Richard could make out a vague and shadowy form sitting desolate upon a huge boulder by the roadside. Upon a nearer approach he recognized it to be the foot-boy Thomas. When he caught sight of the approaching company of three he came sliding down off the boulder, running to the young knight's side and embracing his greaved leg for very joy. "Oh, sire!" he hoarsely whispered, "the very devil's to pay back there," jerking his thumb above his shoulder. "And now, prithee, what is 't?" asked Sir Richard. "Came yester morn, sir," he answered, "a great, tall, bearded knight,--with the two points of his mustachios turned skyward ... so,--vowing that he'd bear Mistress de Claverlok away with him or kill everyone in the place. My worshipful master was for having his sword at him upon the instant (and he, sire, but just able to be out of his bed). But Mistress de Claverlok bars the door and holds the murderous knight without. Even I may not be admitted. Hark ye!... I can hear him cursing even now. Thus does he carry on all the day. Why, sire, he stuck the good doctor from Bannockburn right in the middle ... here, sire ... like he were cutting him a cheese. By Saint Peter! but 'tis a parlous business!" "Said you his name, Thomas?" "He called himself the Renegade Duke ... and vowed that he ate sick knights for breakfast. Mistress Isabel doth mightily strive to keep the worshipful master indoors. An he could, he would get out, sire, and have him pinned like the fat doctor from Bannockburn." "Vowed him he ate sick knights for breakfast, did he?" said Sir Richard grimly. "Mayhap, then, he'll relish a well one for dessert." Whereupon, in despite of Rocelia's admonishing cry, the young knight spurred into the mist toward the hut. He saw the fellow clambering upon his saddle when he heard Sir Richard drawing near. The moment that he saw who was riding down upon him, the craven coward set spurs against his steed and made off at the top of his bent up the steep hill and quickly was swallowed up in the fog.