“No, no, sir.  Your mother had never thought she would live.”

“So they say; but her face comes before me in reproach.  There are times when I feel myself a double murderer.  I have been on the point of telling all to Mr. Fellowes, or going home to accuse myself.  Only the thought of my father and mother, and of leaving such a blight on that poor baby, has withheld me; but I cannot go home to face the sight of the castle.”

“No,” said Anne, choked with tears.

“Nor is there any suspicion of the poor fellow’s fate,” he added.

“Not that I ever heard.”

“His family think him fled, as was like enough, considering the way in which they treated him,” said Charles.  “Nor do I see what good it would do them to know the truth.”

“It would only be a grief and bitterness to all.”

“I hope I have repented, and that God accepts my forgiveness,” said Charles sadly.  “I am banishing myself from all I love, and there is a weight on me for life; but, unless suspicion falls on others, I do not feel bound to make it worse for all by giving myself up.  Yet those appearances—­to you, to me, to us both!  At such a moment, too, last night!”

“Can it be because of his unhallowed grave?” said Anne, in a low voice of awe.

“If it were!” said Charles, drawing up his horse for a moment in thought.  “Anne, if there be one more appearance, the place shall be searched, whether it incriminate me or not.  It would be adding to all my wrongs towards the poor fellow, if that were the case.”

“Even if he were found,” said Anne, “suspicion would not light on you.  And at home it will be known if he haunts the place.  I will—­ "

“Nay, but, Anne, he will not interrupt me now.  I have much more to say.  I want you to remember that we were sweethearts ere ever I, as a child of twelve, knew that I was contracted to that poor babe, and bidden to think only of her.  Poor child!  I honestly did my best to love her, so far as I knew how, and mayhap we could have rubbed on through life passably well as things go.  But—­but—­It skills not talking of things gone by, except to show that it is a whole heart—­ not the reversion of one that is yours for ever, mine only love.”

“Oh, but—­but—­I am no match for you.”

“I’ve had enough of grand matches.”

“Your father would never endure it.”

“My father would soon rejoice.  Besides, if we are wedded here—­say at Ostend—­and you make me a home at Buda, or Vienna, or some place at our winter quarters, as my brave wench will, my father will be glad enough to see us both at home again.”

“No; it cannot be.  It would be plain treachery to your parents; Mr. Fellowes would say so.  I am sure he would not marry us.”

“There are English chaplains.  Is that all that holds you back?”

“No, sir.  If the Archbishop of Canterbury were here himself, it could not make it other than a sin, and an act of mean ingratitude, for me, the Prince’s rocker, to take advantage of their goodness in permitting you to come and bring me home—­to do what would be pain, grief, and shame to them.”