The duke paused with his hand on his dagger; but he knew that his wife’s words were true, and he realized that his ruin would follow quickly on the heels of her death.

“You complain that the world and your own family are against you, my lord,” said the duchess.  “It is because you are a cruel tyrant abroad and at home.  It is because you are against the world and against those whom you should protect and keep safe from evil.  The fault is with you, Charles of Burgundy.  You have spoken the truth.  The world hates you, and this girl—­the tenderest, most loving heart on earth—­dreads you as her most relentless enemy.  If I were in your place, my lord, I would fall upon my sword.”

Beaten by his wife’s just fury, this great war hero walked back to his chair, and the duchess tenderly lifted Mary to the divan.

“He will not strike you, child,” said Margaret.  Then she fell to kissing Yolanda passionately, and tears came to her relief.

Poor Yolanda buried her face in her mother’s breast and tried to smother her sobs.  Charles sat mumbling blasphemous oaths.  At the expiration of half an hour, a page announced the Bishop of Cambrai and other gentlemen.  The duke signified that they were to be admitted; and when the bishop entered the room, Charles, who was smarting from his late defeat, spoke angrily:—­

“By the good God, my Lord Bishop, you are slow!  Does it require an hour to write a missive of ten lines?  If you are as slow in saving souls as in writing letters, the world will go to hell before you can say a mass.”

“The wording was difficult, Your Grace,” replied the bishop obsequiously.  “The Lord d’Hymbercourt said Your Grace wished the missive to be written in English, which language my scrivener knows but imperfectly.  After it was written I received Your Lordship’s instructions to use the word ‘now,’ so I caused the letter to be rewritten that I might comply with your wishes.”

“Now” is a small word, but in this instance it was a great one for Yolanda, as you shall soon learn.

“Cease explaining, my Lord Bishop, and read me the missive,” said the duke, sullenly.

The bishop unfolded the missive, which was in a pouch ready for sealing.  Yolanda stopped sobbing that she might hear the document that touched so closely on her fate.  Her tear-stained face, with its childlike pathos, but served to increase her father’s anger.

“Read, my Lord Bishop!  Body of me, why stand you there like a wooden quintain?” exclaimed the duke.  “By all the gods, you are slow!  Read, I say!”

“With pleasure, my lord,” answered the bishop.

“To His Majesty, King Louis of France, Charles, Duke of Burgundy and Count of Charolois, sends this Greeting:—­