“’Tis a glorious morning for riding forth.  I have had a fine jaunt and met nothing but the post-boy,”—­and here she showed a billet and rode close to the wall and hid it neath the ivy—­“and a famous adventure which I’ve half a mind to pursue, after—­I’ve ’suaged my hunger.  If I ride thus every morning, I shall soon have an arm as pink and round and perfect in mould as thine own.  Hast thou broken fast?”

“I have had my simple allotment, and have been down on the lower terraces and gathered these violets, and am now hungry again and Janet has gone for a wing of fowl and some wine.”  At these words Lady Constance looked about her cautiously and spoke in low tones,—­

“Everything is ready for thy flight.  I saw Adrian this morning.  He is handsomer than ever and eager to see thee, and counts the hours ’til nightfall.  If ’tis possible thou art to escape unnoticed to the monastery, where the nuptials will be performed at once, then thou art to depart immediately for Whitehall, where thou wilt be made much of by the King and he will more like detain thy husband under pretext, and mayhap offer him some honour for the sake of keeping thy beauty in England.”—­With a wave of the hand Mistress Penwick bade Lady Constance depart as Janet stood within the door.

The castle was astir early, as if there was naught but a glorious day before them, and they would make it of much length.  It seemed as if a great peace had settled upon those ivy-clad walls, or it might be the calm that is the solemn presage of storm, and Sir Julian himself quiet beyond his wont seemed to portend the calamities that were to ensue; and after his breakfast stood at a window watching the dripping trees and whistling so softly one could not tell whether ’twere he or the birds chirping without.  Cedric and Lady Constance played at battledore and shuttlecock.  Mistress Penwick sat apart, busy with thought and needle.  His Grace of Ellswold sat up that morning, his wife and physicians by his side, and all were happy with the great improvement.

Meanwhile, at the monastery all was commotion.  The day there would be far too short to accomplish all that was to be done.  Three couriers had arrived since dawn with important dispatches.  In the midst of the monks, who sat upon long benches that flanked either side of a spacious gallery, sat Adrian Cantemir, reading the last message.  Opposite, at the table, were three monks apparently engaged upon their own affairs, but subtly watching the puzzled countenance of their guest.  Finally their patience seemed to have run out and Constantine, the monk directly vis-a-vis to Cantemir, coughed, cleared his throat and in low gutterals said,—­

“Thy countenance is unfair; ’tis a perjury on thy happy heart.”  Adrian looked up with a start, so lost was he in contemplation.  His letter was prophetic of evil, and he was afraid.

“’Tis ill news, and thou wert not far wrong to bring forth thine arms.  The secrets to be intrusted to my wife it seems have already reached—­”