e King interrupted him imperiously--

"Peace! What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests, contrasted
with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the integrity of a
throne?" Then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if he were sorry for his
severity, "Obey, and have no fear; I will right thee, I will make thee
whole--yes, more than whole. I shall remember, and requite."

So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. Hendon contemplated
him lovingly a while, then said to himself--

"An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke; there's no
denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten
like your true King; now where got he that trick? See him scribble and
scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to
be Latin and Greek--and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device
for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to pretend to post
away to-morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me."

The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent episode.
So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the King presently handed
him the paper which he had been writing, he received it and pocketed it
without being conscious of the act. "How marvellous strange she acted,"
he muttered. "I think she knew me--and I think she did NOT know me.
These opinions do conflict, I perceive it plainly; I cannot reconcile
them, neither can I, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even
persuade one to outweigh the other. The matter standeth simply thus:
she MUST have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be
otherwise? Yet she SAID she knew me not, and that is proof perfect, for
she cannot lie. But stop--I think I begin to see. Peradventure he hath
influenced her, commanded her, compelled her to lie. That is the
solution. The riddle is unriddled. She seemed dead with fear--yes, she
was under his compulsion. I will seek her; I will find her; now that he
is away, she will speak her true mind. She will remember the old times
when we were little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart,
and she will no more betray me, but will confess me. There is no
treacherous blood in her--no, she was always honest and true. She has
loved me, in those old days--this is my security; for whom one has loved,
one cannot betray."

He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and the
Lady Edith enter