"What, take you nought from me but only him?" she cried indignantly. "Is it not rather mine own good name whereof you would undo me? Ye have bereaved me of him already. I tare him from mine heart long ago, though I tare mine own heart in the doing of it. He is not worth the love I have wasted on him, and have repreved [denied, rejected] thereof one ten thousand times his better! God assoil [forgive] my blindness!--for mine eyes be opened now. But you, Sire,--you ask of me that I shall sign away mine own honourable name and my child's birthright, and as bribe to bid me thereunto, you proffer me my lands! What saw you ever in Custance of Langley to give you the thought that she should thus lightly sell her soul for gold, or weigh your paltry acres in the balances against her truth and honour?" Every nerve of the outraged soul was quivering with excitement. In the calm even tones which responded, there was no more excitement than in an iceberg. "Fair Cousin, you do but utterly mistake. The matter is done and over; nor shall your 'knowledgment thereof make but little difference. 'Tis neither for our own sake, neither for our cousin of Kent, but for yours, that we would fain sway you unto a better mind. Nor need you count, fair Cousin, that your denial should let by so much as one day our cousin of Kent his bridal with the Lady Lucy. We do you to wit that you stand but in your own light. Your marriage is annulled. What good then shall come of your 'knowledgment, saving your own easement? But for other sake, if ye do persist yet in your unwisdom, we must needs make note of you as a disobedient subject." There was silence again, only broken by the quiet regular dripping of the water-clock in a corner of the room. Silence, until Custance sank slowly on her knees, and buried her face upon the cushion of the settle. "God, help me; for I have none other help!" sobbed the agitated voice. "Help me to make this unceli [miserable] choice betwixt wrong and wrong, betwixt sorrow and sorrow!" A less impulsive and demonstrative woman would not have spoken her thoughts aloud. But Custance wore her heart upon her sleeve. What wonder if the daws pecked at it? "Not betwixt wrong and wrong, fair Cousin," responded the cool voice of the King. "Rather, betwixt wrong and right. Nor betwixt sorrow and sorrow, but betwixt sorrow and pleasance." With another sudden change in her mood, Custance lifted her head, and asked in a tone which was almost peremptory-- "Is it the desire of my Lord himself that I be present?" To reply in the affirmative was to lie; for Kent was entirely innocent and ignorant of the King's demand. But what mattered a few lies, when Archbishop Arundel, the fountain of absolution, was seated in the banquet-hall? So Henry had no scruple in answering unconcernedly-- "It is our cousin of Kent his most earnest desire."