The Duke sat down to the collation hastily spread before him, with the air of an exceedingly injured man. He would not have been quite so angry, if his own conscience had not been so provoking as to second every word of Perrote's reprimand. And as it is never of the least use for a man to quarrel with his conscience, he could do nothing but make Perrote the scape-goat, unless, indeed, he had possessed sufficient grace and humility to accept and profit by the rebuke:--which in his eyes, was completely out of the question. Had the Archbishop of York been the speaker, he might possibly have condescended so far. But the whims of an old nurse--a subject--a woman--he told himself, must needs be utterly beneath the notice of any one so exalted. The excellence of the medicine offered him could not even be considered, if it were presented in a vessel of common pottery, chipped at the edges. Notwithstanding his wrath, the Duke did sufficient justice to the collation; and he then demanded, if it must be, to be taken to his mother at once. The sooner the ordeal was over, the better, and he did not mean to remain at Hazelwood an hour longer than could be helped. Lady Foljambe went up to prepare the Countess for the interview. In her chamber she found not only Amphillis, who was on duty, but the Archbishop also. He sat by the bed with the book of the Gospels in his hands--a Latin version, of course--from which he had been translating a passage to the invalid. "Well, what now, Avena?" faintly asked the Countess, who read news in Lady Foljambe's face. There was no time to break it very gradually, for Lady Foljambe knew that the Duke's impatience would not brook delay. "Dame," she said, shortly, "my Lord your son--" "Bring him in!" cried the Countess, in a voice of ecstasy, without allowing Lady Foljambe to finish her sentence. How it was to end she seemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strength to her enfeebled frame. "Bring him in! my Jean, my darling, my little lad! Said I not the lad should never forsake his old mother? Bring him in!" Lady Foljambe drew back to allow the Duke to enter, for his step was already audible. He came in, and stood by the bed--tall, upright, silent. "My Jean!" cried the dying mother. "Madame!" was the answer, decorous and icy. "Kiss me, my Jean! Why dost thou not kiss me? Lad, I have not seen thee all these weary years!" The Duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which was stretched out towards him. His lips were warm, but his kiss was as cold as a kiss well could be.