She clasped it in
hers, and kissed it many times. And that was his farewell.

"When he had drawn his hand from her, and was gone forth, she sat a
season like a statue, listening. She hearkened till she heard him ride
away--on his way to Alianora. Then, as if some prop that had held her
up were suddenly withdrawn, she fell forward, and lay with her face to
the rushes. All that awful night she lay there. Alina came to her, and
strove to lift her, to give her food, to yield her comfort: but she took
no heed of anything. When the dawn came, she arose, and wrapped herself
in her mantle. She took no money, no jewels--not an ouche nor a grain
of gold. Only she wrapped in silk two locks of hair--his and thine. I
should have left the first behind. Then, when she was seated on the
horse to depart, the page told her who mounted afore, that his Lord had
given him command to take her to a certain place, which was not to be
told beforehand.

"Alina said she shivered a little at this; but she only answered, `Do my
lord's will.' Then she asked for thee. Alina lifted thee up to her,
and she clasped thee close underneath her veil, and kissed thee
tenderly. And that was thy last mother's kiss."

"Then that is what I remember!" broke in Philippa suddenly.

"It is impossible, child!" answered Joan. "Thou wert but a babe of
three years old."

"But I do--I am sure I do!" she repeated.

"Have thy way," said Joan. "If thou so thinkest, I will not gainsay
thee. Well, she gave thee back in a few minutes; and then she rode
away--never pausing to look back--no man knew whither."

"But what became of her?"

"God wotteth. Sometimes I hope he murdered her. One sin more or less
would matter little to the black list of sins on his guilty soul; and
the little pain of dying by violence would have saved Isabel the greater
pain of living through the desolate woe of the future. But I never
knew, as I told thee. Nor shall I ever know, till that last day come
when the Great Doom shall be, and he and she shall stand together before
the bar of God. There shall be an end to her torment then. It is
something to think that there shall be no end to his."

So, in a tone of bitter, passionate vindictiveness, Joan La Despenser
closed her story.

Philippa sat silent, wondering many things. If Guy of Ashridge knew any
thing of this, if Giles de Edingdon were yet living, if Agnes the
lavender had ever found out what became of her rever