It was toward Rosamund that the Queen looked, and smiled a little pitifully.  “Should Queen Ysabeau be angry or vexed or very cruel now, my Rosamund? for at bottom she is glad.”

And the Queen said also:  “I give you back your plighted word.  I ride homeward to my husks, but you remain.  Or rather, the Countess of Farrington departs for the convent of Ambresbury, disconsolate in her widowhood and desirous to have done with worldly affairs.  It is most natural she should relinquish to her beloved and only brother all her dower-lands—­or so at least Messire de Berners acknowledges.  Here, then, is the grant, my Gregory, that conveys to you those lands of Ralph de Belomys which last year I confiscated.  And this tedious Messire de Berners is willing now—­he is eager to have you for a son-in-law.”

About them fell the dying leaves, of many glorious colors, but the air of this new day seemed raw and chill, while, very calmly, Dame Ysabeau took Sir Gregory’s hand and laid it upon the hand of Rosamund Eastney.  “Our paladin is, in the outcome, a mortal man, and therefore I do not altogether envy you.  Yet he has his moments, and you are capable.  Serve, then, not only his desires but mine also, dear Rosamund.”

There was a silence.  The girl spoke as though it was a sacrament.  “I will, madame and Queen.”

Thus did the Queen end her holiday.

A little later the Countess of Farrington rode from Ordish with all her train save one; and riding from that place, where love was, she sang very softly.

Sang Ysabeau: 

  “As with her dupes dealt Circe
  Life deals with hers, for she
  Reshapes them without mercy,
  And shapes them swinishly,
  To wallow swinishly,
  And for eternity;

  “Though, harder than the witch was,
  Life, changing not the whole,
  Transmutes the body, which was
  Proud garment of the soul,
  And briefly drugs the soul,
  Whose ruin is her goal;

  “And means by this thereafter
  A subtler mirth to get,
  And mock with bitterer laughter
  Her helpless dupes’ regret,
  Their swinish dull regret
  For what they half forget.”

And within the hour came Hubert Frayne to Ordish, on a foam-specked horse, as he rode to announce to the King’s men the King’s barbaric murder overnight, at Berkeley Castle, by Queen Ysabeau’s order.

“Ride southward,” said Lord Berners, and panted as they buckled on his disused armor; “but harkee, Frayne! if you pass the Countess of Farrington’s company, speak no syllable of your news, since it is not convenient that a lady so thoroughly and so praise-worthily—­Lord, Lord, how I have fattened!—­so intent on holy things, in fine, should have her meditations disturbed by any such unsettling tidings.  Hey, son-in-law?”

Sir Gregory Darrell laughed, very bitterly.  “He that is without blemish among you—­” he said.  Then they armed completely, and went forth to battle against the murderous harlot.