They were turned now upon Amphillis. "Your Grace's new chamber-dame," said Mistress Perrote, "in the room of Clarice. Her name is Amphillis Neville." The faintest shadow of interest passed over the sorrowful eyes. "Go near," said Perrote to Amphillis, "and kiss her Grace's hand." Amphillis did as she was told. The lady, after offering her hand for the kiss, turned it and gently lifted the girl's face. "Dost thou serve God?" she said, in a voice which matched her eyes. "I hope so, Dame," replied Amphillis. "I hope nothing," said the mysterious lady. "It is eight years since I knew what hope was. I have hoped in my time as much as ever woman did. But God took away from me one boon after another, till now He hath left me desolate. Be thankful, maid, that thou canst yet hope." She dropped her hand, and went back to her work with a weary sigh. "Dame," said Perrote, "your Grace wot that her Ladyship desires not that you talk in such strain to the damsels." The white face changed as Amphillis had thought it could not change, and the sunken eyes shot forth fire. "Her Ladyship!" said the widow. "Who is Avena Foljambe, that she looketh to queen it over Marguerite of Flanders? They took my lord, and I lived through it. They took my daughter, and I bare it. They took my son, my firstborn, and I was silent, though it brake my heart. But by my troth and faith, they shall not still my soul, nor lay bonds upon my tongue when I choose to speak. Avena Foljambe! the kinswoman of a wretched traitor, that met the fate he deserved--why, hath she ten drops of good blood in her veins? And she looks to lord it over a daughter of Charlemagne, that hath borne sceptre ere she carried spindle!" Mistress Perrote's calm even voice checked the flow of angry words. "Dame, your Grace speaks very sooth [truth]. Yet I beseech you remember that my Lady doth present [represent] an higher than herself--the King's Grace and no lesser." The lady in white rose to her feet. "What mean you, woman? King Edward of Windsor may be your master and hers, but he is not mine! I owe him no allegiance, nor I never sware any." "Your son hath sworn it, Dame." The eyes blazed out again. "My son is a hound!--a craven cur, that licks the hand that lashed him!--a poor court fool that thinks it joy enough to carry his bauble, and marvel at his motley coat and his silvered buttons! That he should be my son,--and _his_!" The voice changed so suddenly, that Amphillis could scarcely believe it to be the same. All the passionate fury died out of it, and instead came a low soft tone of unutterable pain, loneliness, and regret. The speaker dropped down into her chair, and laying her arm upon the little table, hid her face upon it. "My poor Lady!" said Perrote in tender accents--more tender than Amphillis had imagined she could use. The lady in white lifted her head.