, from the simplest black and white
to the showiest red, blue, and yellow. In the one portrait occurring in
Creton's life-like illuminations, which I am disposed to identify with
that of Le Despenser, he wears a grey gown, relieved by very narrow
stripes of red. Perhaps it was that identical cloak or gown which hung
upon the arm of Bertram Lyngern, just outside the postern gate.

"Nay, good friend!" objected Le Despenser, with his customary kindly
consideration. "I have wearied thee enough these six days. Master
Giles shall go with me now."

"My Lord," replied Bertram, deferentially, yet firmly, "your especial
command except, we part not, by your leave."

Le Despenser acquiesced with a smile, and both entered the boat. When
Davy the ferryman returned, an hour later, he reported that his master
had embarked safely on a barge bound for Ireland.

"Then all will be well," said Constance lightly.

"God allowing!" gravely interposed the old lady. "There be winds and
waves atween Cardiff and Ireland, fair Daughter."

Did she think only of winds and waves?

No news reached them until the evening of the following Thursday. They
had sat down to supper, about four o'clock, when the blast of a horn
outside broke the stillness. The Lady Le Despenser, whom the basin of
rose-water had just reached for the opening washing of hands, dropped
the towel and grew white as death.

"Jesu have mercy! yonder is Master Lyngern's horn!"

"He is maybe returned with a message, Lady," suggested Father Ademar,
the chaplain; but all eyes were fixed on the door of the hall until
Bertram entered.

The worst apprehensions which each imagination could form took vivid
shape in the minds of all, when they saw his face. So white and
woe-begone he looked--so weary and unutterably sorrowful, that all
anticipated the news of some heavy and irreparable calamity, from which
he only had escaped alone to tell them.

"Where left you your Lord, Master Lyngern?"

It was the Dowager who was the first to break the spell of silence.

"Madam," said Bertram, in a husky, faltering voice, "I left him not at
all--till he left me."

He evidently had some secret meaning, and he was afraid to tell the
awful truth at once. Constance had risen, and stood nervously grasping
the arm of her state chair, with a white, excited face; but she did not
ask a question.

"Speak the worst, Bertram Lyngern!" cried the old lady. "Thy Lord--"

It seemed to Bertram