l the meal was almost over that he had an opportunity for a
word aside to the Duke.

"May I ask Your Grace the name of the fair-haired man yonder?" he said.

"I cry pardon," Richard exclaimed. "I forgot you were a stranger in
England. He is my Chamberlain, Sir William Catesby. . . The
black-moustached Knight with the scar on his forehead, who has just put
down his wine glass, is Sir Richard Ratcliffe. . . The elderly man
beside him with the gray hair and ruddy countenance is Sir Robert
Brackenbury. . . The one with the thin, dark face and broad shoulders
is Lord Darby of Roxford.--The rest are younger men and of less
prominence. . . The one beside Darby is Sir Ralph de Wilton, next to
him is Sir James Dacre, and on Dacre's left is Sir Henry de Vivonne."

He pushed back his chair and arose.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you are excused from further attendance." Then
he called to De Wilton.

"Sir Ralph," he said, "Sir Aymer de Lacy is of the Household. Give
him some idea of his duties, and then sponsor him in Her Grace's
presence chamber."

And Aymer liked De Wilton on the instant, with his courteous manner and
frank, gracious smile, and for an hour or more they sat in pleasant
conversation. Then Sir Ralph was summoned to the Duke, and De Lacy,
postponing, perforce, his presentation to the Duchess' household until
the morrow, went for a stroll on the ramparts.

Night had settled down; the sky was clear and through the cool, crisp
air the stars were shining brightly. The turmoil in the bailey had
subsided, but from the quarters of the soldiery rose the hum of voices
that now and then swelled out into the chorus of some drinking or
fighting song. There were lights in many of the dwellings where lived
the married members of the permanent garrison, and from them ever and
anon came the shrill tones of some shrewish, woman scolding her
children or berating her lord and master. For a while Sir Aymer paced
the great wide wall, reflecting upon what had occurred since he came to
Pontefract and the matters he had learned from De Wilton. But through
it all a woman's face kept with him and led his thoughts awry, and
presently he turned aside and leaned upon the parapet.

He had found her--and by accident; and had lost her the same instant.
Beatrix of Clare, the greatest heiress in England, was not for him--a
wanderer and a stranger. She had warned him plainly that day in
Windsor Forest--though he, not knowing her, ha