He nodded eagerly.

"Tell me again" . . . and she studied his motions carefully. . . "The sun and the tree--and the sun and the tree again . . . is that your meaning? . . . Ah! . . . the _top_ of the tree . . . I think I am beginning to understand. . . . Where is your doublet?"

De Lacy pointed into the forest.

"And your bonnet? . . . with your doublet? . . . and your dagger? . . .

gone with the others? . . . you mean your ring? and it went with them, too? . . . yes, yes--I see now--outlaws, and your wound got in the struggle." . . . She turned toward the tree. . . "Ah! I have it:--you are paroled to silence until the sun has risen above the highest branch . . . what? . . . and also must remain here until then? . . . I see--it was that or die . . . no? . . . Oh! that or be bound? . . .

well, truly the knaves were wondrous courteous!" . . . She studied De Lacy's face a moment--then sat down. "Would you like company?" she asked.

Would he like company! Her company!

She laughed gayly--though a bit of color touched her cheek.

"Thank you," she said, "I can read your countenance better than your bows."

Then suddenly his face grew grave and he motioned no.

"Yes, and I can understand that, too," she smiled, "and thank you for it. It may be a trifle uncommon to sit here in the depths of Windsor forest with a man I never met . . . never even saw until last night . . . and who has never spoken a single word to me . . . yet"

(glancing at the sun) "the time is not long and . . . the path is rarely traveled."

He smiled--but the concern lingered in his eyes and he shook his head questioningly.

"Nay, sir, do you not see your very urging me to go proves me safe in staying?"

He hesitated, still doubtful--then threw himself on the turf at her feet.

"I suppose it is for me to do the talking," she observed.

And as she talked he fell to watching the sun in her hair--the play of her lips--the light in her eyes. . . . Never before would he have believed that grey could be so deep and tender; or that a mouth could be so tantalizing; or the curve of a cheek so sweet; or ruddy tresses so alluring. . . . And her voice--was there ever such another!--soft, low, clear, like silver bells at twilight out at sea.

And in the watching he lost her words, nor nodded when he should--until, at length, she sprang up and went over to her horse.

And when in sharp contrition he followed after to apologize, she met him with a laugh and gracious gesture--then pointed to the sun.

"The parole is lifted," she said. "Will you put me up?"

With his sound arm he swung her into saddle--and with Rollo in advance and him beside her they went slowly back to Windsor. And now he did the talking--telling first the story of the outlaws.

When the towers of the huge castle showed afar through the trees, De Lacy halted.

"Would you deem me rude if I went no further with you?" he asked.

She smiled kindly. "On the contrary, I would deem you very wise."

"I care not to proclaim my adventure with the outlaws. It would make me a merry jest in the hall."

"I understand--and yet, wounded and without bonnet or doublet, you will not pa.s.s unnoted; an explanation will be obligatory."

"The wound is easy," he said; "my own dagger made it, you remember--but the doublet and bonnet, particularly the doublet, are bothersome."

She looked at him with quick decision.

"I will manage that," she said; "your squire shall bring both to you here."

De Lacy's face lighted with sudden pleasure, and he put out his hand toward hers--then drew it sharply back and bowed.

"Still bowing?" she said naively.

"I have no words to speak my grat.i.tude," he said.

"And I no ears that wish to hear them, if you had," she laughed. "This morning you have had much trouble--I much pleasure--the scales are balanced--the accounts canceled. We will forget it all. Never will I mention it to you--nor you to me--nor either to another. When we meet again it will be as though to-day had never been. . . Nay, sir, it must be so. You have been unfortunate, I unconventional--it is best for both we start afresh."

"But am I not even to know your name?" he protested.

She shook her head. "Not even that, now, and I ask your word not to seek to know it--until we meet again."

"You have it," said he, "until we meet again--to-morrow."

She smiled vaguely. "It will be a far to-morrow . . . good-bye, my lord," and rode away--then turned. "Wait for your squire," she called.

"And for to-morrow," he cried.

But she made no answer, and with a wave of her hand was gone, the dog leaping in front of her and baying loud with joy.

II

RICHARD OF GLOUCESTER

But the morrow brought no maid, nor a fortnight of morrows--she had vanished; and seek as he might at Windsor or through the Tower he could not find her. Had he been privileged to inquire the quest would have been ended by a word--but she herself had closed his lips to questions.

Then the mighty Edward died, and all was confusion in the Court; and what with the funeral, the goings and the comings, the plottings and the intrigues, De Lacy was in a maze. The boy King was at Ludlow with Rivers, and it was n.o.bility against Queen and Woodville until he came for his crowning. And in the turmoil De Lacy was forced to cease, for the nonce, the pursuit of ruddy tresses and grey eyes, and choose where he would stand. And presently that choice sent him riding into the North--bearing a message to the man in distant Pontefract, upon whom, at that moment, all England was waiting and who, as yet, had made no move, Richard of Gloucester.

The day was far spent, and before a fireplace in his private apartments Richard sat alone, in heavy meditation. The pale, clean-shaven, youthful face, with its beautiful mouth and straight Norman nose, and the short, slender figure in its mantle and doublet of black velvet furred with ermine, rich under tunic of white satin, tight-fitting hose of silk, and dark brown hair hanging bushy to the shoulders, would have been almost effeminate but for the ma.s.sively majestic forehead and the fierce black eyes--brilliant, compelling, stern, proud--that flashed forth the mighty soul within.

Although he had just pa.s.sed his thirtieth year, yet his fame was as wide as the domain of chivalry, and his name a thing to conjure with in England. Born in an age when almost as children men of rank and station were called upon to take their sires' place, Richard had been famed for his wisdom and statecraft before the years when the period of youth is now presumed to begin. At the age of eighteen he had led the flower of the Yorkist army at the great battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury, and not the dauntless Edward himself, then in the heyday of his prowess, was more to be feared than the slight boy who swept with inconceivable fury through the Lancastrian line, carrying death on his lance-point and making the Boar of Gloucester forever famous in English heraldry. And since then his hauberk had scarce been off his back, and while his royal brother was dallying in a life of indulgence amid the dissipations of his Court, the brave and resolute Richard was leading his armies, administering his governments, and preserving order on the Marches of the Border.

Presently there was a sharp knock on the door and a page entered.

"Well?" demanded the Duke abruptly.

"May it please you, my lord," said the boy; "a messenger of importance who desires immediate audience."

Richard frowned slightly.

"Whose badge does he wear?" he asked.