"The Lady Ursula's song seems to fascinate His Grace of Wessex," whispered Don Miguel in His Eminence's ear. "Hush! the small opportunity, my lord Marquis," whispered the Cardinal in reply. "Have I the honour of following Your Majesty?" he added respectfully, bowing to the Queen. "Nay, on our left, Your Eminence," rejoined Mary coldly. Her right hand was still on Wessex' arm, and slowly, as if reluctantly, she began to move in the direction of the Palace. Don Miguel, at an almost imperceptible sign from his chief, had quickly disappeared down the terrace steps. "Ah! my breviary!" suddenly exclaimed His Eminence in great perturbation. "I forgot it on the terrace!--the Nuncio will desire a prayer, and I am helpless without my Latin text! . . . If Your Majesty will deign to forgive one moment. . . ." He made a movement as if he would turn back. From the further end of the terrace the young singer was continuing her song. "Will Your Eminence allow me?" said the Duke of Wessex with alacrity. "With pleasure, my dear lord," responded the Cardinal urbanely. "Ah! had I your years and you mine, 'twere my pleasure to serve you. . . . And Her Majesty will excuse . . ." he added pointedly, for His Grace was quite ready to withdraw, whilst Mary was equally prepared to stop him with a look. "Will Your Majesty deign to place your hand on my arm? The envoy of His Holiness the Pope awaits your Most Catholic Majesty." He was standing before her, outwardly respectful and full of deference. The pages and ladies had already disappeared within the Palace, whilst the Duke of Wessex, taking the Queen's silence for consent, had turned back towards the distant part of the terrace. Mary, with all her weaknesses where her affections were concerned, was too proud to let this Spaniard see that she felt baffled and not a little humiliated. She guessed that this had been a ruse, a trap into which she had fallen. How it had all been done she knew not, but she could easily guess why. She smothered the angry words which had risen to her lips, and without looking either to the right or left of her, she walked quickly towards the Palace. CHAPTER XV THE HAND OF FATE Ursula had had a good cry. She was a mere girl, only just out of her teens; she had been hideously disappointed and had given way to a paroxysm of tears, just like a child that has been cheated of its toys. As far as her actual feelings for Wessex were concerned, she scarcely troubled to analyse them. As a tiny child she had worshipped the gallant boy, who had always been pointed out to her as the pattern of what an English nobleman should be, and moreover as the future husband who was to rule over her destiny. No doubt that the Earl of Truro, lying on his deathbed, had but little real perception of what he was doing, when he forced his daughter to swear that she would marry Wessex or remain single to the end of her days.