“Nay, nay, thou shalt not yet be gone.  Wouldst thou be so cruel to leave me now at Love’s first onset?  I will not have it!”

“But I must hasten,—­I am riding alone, and some one will be sent for me if I do not soon return to the castle.”

“Thou must give me promise first, sweet one!”

“Promise,—­promise of what?” and she listened eagerly to his next words.

“Dost thou not covet a Prince’s favour?” Constance’ heart fluttered mightily, and she thought—­“A fig for Cedric’s love of me.  He loves not at all, compared with this man’s warm passion.  Cedric loves me not at all, anyway.  I will be a Prince’s favourite,” and she answered,—­

“I never covet that which is beyond my reach.”  ’Tis often a true thing that when we sit within our dark and dismal chamber without comfort, hope or happy retrospection, there stands upon the threshold a joyous phenomenon of which we have never so much as dreamt as being in existence; and this had come to Constance.  If the Duke loved her, what would it matter if Cedric did love Katherine?  She could not compel him to love her.

“Ah, sweet Katherine, how can one covet that they already possess?  I would teach thee to enjoy all that such beauty as thine is heir to.  Thou wilt come to me to-night?”

“To-night!” and Lady Constance fairly gasped.

“To-night, fair one, on the stroke of nine thou wilt pass through the postern door of the castle and fall into my arms,—­here, take this, sweet, to pledge thyself.”  He slipped from his finger a ring of marvellous beauty and essayed to place it upon her hand.

“Nay, I cannot.  I should be seen to go forth at so early an hour,—­and I know thee not!”

“Thou art not afraid of me?  Nay, I am one of the most gentle and tender—­”

“But where wilt thou take me, your Grace?”

“I will take thee to my heart, and if thou art unhappy, thou mayest return when thou desirest; but ’twill be my pleasure to keep thee with me alway; we will go to London.”  Constance, having read the letter, knew it would not do for her to leave the drawing-room at the same hour with Katherine, and she hardly knew what to do.

“Indeed, I have no wish to see a duel upon my Lord Cedric’s grounds, thou must come later.  My love will perhaps wait an hour,—­thou mayest come at twelve.”

“And allow him to come first and steal thee; nay, I protest.”  Constance felt somewhat dubious.  The Duke saw it, and hastened to reassure her.

“If thou wilt sit near the window on the stroke of nine, I will let thy lover go; but if thou dost pass from my sight, I will run the fellow through; and thou mayest come to me at twelve!”

To this Constance agreed, and allowed him to place the ring; and he kissing her again with fervour, let her go, exultant.

’Twas a glorious, clear, warm night.  The castle was aglow and merry.  Lady Bettie Payne and Sir Rodger Mac Veigh and Sir Jasper Kenworthy and sundry other shire folk had come to while away a spring night.  The gentlemen were playing at cup and ball; Lady Constance and Lady Bettie were gossiping of Court scandal, when in swept her Grace of Ellswold with Mistress Penwick, the latter such a vision of loveliness the game was suspended for a moment, and Constance and Bettie looked up to see why all eyes were turned from them.