follows none but
Plantagenet."

"Bravely spoken," said Gloucester, suddenly dropping his stern air,
"and worthy of the great name you bear. I accept your sword. Nay,
kneel not, sir; Richard Plantagenet deems himself most fortunate to
have you at his side."

At that moment the arras was drawn aside and a young and slender woman
entered. Her gown was black, unrelieved by any color, save the girdle
of gold; her face was almost flawless in its symmetry; her complexion
was of a wondrous whiteness; and her eyes, of the deepest blue, soft
and melting, and shaded by lashes long and heavy, were of the sort that
bespeak the utmost confidence and know no guile. She hesitated as she
saw De Lacy and was about to withdraw when the Duke glanced around.

"Nay, sweetheart," said he, rising and going toward her; "do not
retire. . . . Sir Aymer de Lacy, I present you to the Duchess of
Gloucester."

De Lacy advanced and sinking upon one knee touched his lips to the hand
she extended to him.

"Surely, Sir Knight," she said, in a voice whose sweetness struck even
his Southern-bred ear, "a De Lacy should ever be welcome in the halls
of Pontefract."

"Your words, most gracious lady," answered Aymer, "are almost those
used by my lord, the Duke, and to a wanderer's heart they are very
grateful."

"You are an errant, then; a Sir Guy or Sir Lancelot," said the Duchess.

"Nay. Only a poor and simple Knight whose highest honor is that he may
henceforth follow the banner of your great husband."

"Then must hauberk sit easy as velvet doublet or I know not my lord,"
and she smiled at Richard.

"Do not," said he, "give to Sir Aymer the notion that he has nothing
but hard blows before him--although, indeed, he rode hither on scarce a
peaceful mission, since he bears from Stafford and the Nobility the
tender of the Protectorship and the insistence that I proceed to London
without delay."

As he spoke the face of the Duchess suddenly became grave, and stepping
swiftly to his side she put her hand upon his arm.

"You will not go, Richard?" she begged.

"Why, sweetheart, what ails you? Why should a journey to London and a
possible exchange of blows alarm you?"

"It is not the journey, dear," she answered. "Many a time have you
taken it; and, for the blows, did I not speed you to the Scottish war?
Yet I have a foreboding--nay, smile not, my lord!--that upon your
course in this matter hangs not only your own fate, but the fate of
Pl