ld bear no longer, and he left England, never to return.
He died at Pontigny, his birthplace, on the sixteenth of November
following; and not long afterwards, King Henry reverently knelt to
worship at the tomb of the saint [Note 1] who had been a thorn in his
side as long as he lived.

Then the English Abbots, cruelly mulcted by the Pope, appealed to their
natural Sovereign, to be met by a scowl, and to hear the Legate told
that he might choose the best of the royal castles wherein to imprison
them. Twenty-four Roman priests came over to fill English benefices:
and at last, when the Legate left England (for which "no one was sorry
but the King"), it was calculated that with the exception of church
plate, he carried out of England more wealth than he left in it.

But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outside
calamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towards
summer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the white
lily had faded at last, and the star was going out.

The trial of patience had been long for Margaret but it was over now.

Master Aristoteles could not understand it. The maiden had no disease
that he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of Saint
Dominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable.

There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longer
thought it strange that God should have made her young life short and
bitter. The lesson was learned, at last.

So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just when
it came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to sit
up, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quiet
that it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was.

Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bed
when dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and in
all the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine.

Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in the
festivities.

"Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?" she said, answering
Doucebelle's face. "Margaret will not be any better because I am here.
And then, when I come in at night, I can tell her all about it. And it
is no use talking, Doucebelle! I really cannot bear this sort of thing!
I get so melancholy, you have no idea! I don't know what would become
of me if I had no