ere is not an endowment of
the man but in the end plays traitor to his interest, as of His wisdom
God intends; so that when the man is overthrown, God the Eternal Father
may, in reason, be neither vexed nor grieved if only he takes heart to
rise again. And when, betrayed and impotent, the man elects to fight
out the allotted battle, defiant of common-sense and of the counsellors
which God Himself accorded, I think that they hold festival in heaven."

"A very pretty sermon," said the Queen, and with premeditation yawned.

Followed a silence, vexed only on the purposeless September winds; but
I believe that neither of these two slept with an inappropriate
profundity.

About dawn one of the Queen's attendants roused Sir Gregory Darrell and
presently conducted him into the hedged garden of Ordish, where Ysabeau
walked in tranquil converse with Lord Berners. The old man was in high
good-humor.

"My lad," said he, and clapped Sir Gregory upon the shoulder, "you
have, I do protest, the very phoenix of sisters. I was never happier."
And he went away chuckling.

The Queen said in a toneless voice, "We ride for Blackfriars now."

Darrell responded, "I am content, and ask but leave to speak, and
briefly, with Dame Rosamund before I die."

Then the woman came more near to him. "I am not used to beg, but
within this hour you die, and I have loved no man in all my life saving
only you, Sir Gregory Darrell. Nor have you loved any person as you
loved me once in France. Nay, to-day, I may speak freely, for with you
the doings of that boy and girl are matters overpast. Yet were it
otherwise--eh, weigh the matter carefully! for absolute mistress of
England am I now, and entire England would I give you, and such love as
that slim, white innocence has never dreamed of would I give you,
Gregory Darrell--No, no! ah, Mother of God, not you!" The Queen
clapped one hand upon his lips.

"Listen," she quickly said, as a person in the crisis of panic; "I
spoke to tempt you. But you saw, and clearly, that it was the sickly
whim of a wanton, and you never dreamed of yielding, for you love this
Rosamund Eastney, and you know me to be vile. Then have a care of me!
The strange woman am I of whom we read that her house is the way to
hell, going down to the chambers of death. Yea, many strong men have
been slain by me, and futurely will many others be slain, it may be;
but never you among them, my Gregory, who are more wary, and more