"Not if I die here a thousand times!"

"I do thee to wit, Custance, that there is grave doubt cast of thy truth
and fealty--"

"To Harry of Bolingbroke?" she asked contemptuously. "When lent I _him_
any?"

"Custance!--Of thy truth and fealty unto holy Church our mother. Nor,
maybe, shall she be over ready to lift up out of the mire one whom all
the holy doctors do esteem an heretic."

"What, I?"

"Thou."

"I never was an heretic yet, Isabel, but I do thee to wit thou goest the
way to make me so. As to holy Church, she never was my mother. I can
breathe without her frankincense, belike, and maybe all the freer."

"Alas, Custance! Me feareth sore thou art gone a long way on that ill
road, else hadst thou never spoken such unseemly words."

"Be it so!" said Constance, with the recklessness of overwhelming
misery. "An heretic's daughter, and an heretic's widow--what less might
ye look for? If thou hast mangled mine heart enough to serve thee,
Isabel, I would thou wert out of my sight!"

"Fair Cousin, I do ensure thee mine own lieth bleeding for thy pain."

"Ay, forsooth! I see the drops a-dripping!" said Constance in bitter
mockery. "Marry, get thee hence--'tis the sole mercy thou canst do me."

"So will I; but, Custance, I ensure thee, I am bidden to abide hither
the setting of thine hand to that paper."

"Then haste and bid measure be taken for a coffin, for one shall lack
either for thee or me ere thou depart!"

"Alack, alack!"

But Isabel rose and withdrew, signing to her companion to follow. The
elder nun, who had not yet finished her rosary, stopped in the middle of
a Paternoster, and obeyed.

"Leave me likewise, thou, Maude," said Constance, in a voice in which
anguish and languor strove for the predominance.

"Dear my Lady, could I not--?" Maude began pityingly.

"Nay, my good Maude, nought canst thou do. Unless it _were_ true that
God would hearken prayer, and then, perchance--"

"Trust me for that, Lady mine!--Take I the babe withal?"

"Poor little maid!--Ay,--take her to thee."

Maude followed the nuns into the drawing-room. She found the
beads-woman still busy, on her knees in the window, and Isabel seated in
the one chair sacred to royalty.

"'Tis a soft morrow, Dame Lyngern," complacently remarked the lady whose
heart lay bleeding. "Be that your little maid?"

Maude's tone was just a little stiff.

"The Lady Alianora de Holand, Madam."

"Ah! our fair cousin her