Joan started and ran to the casement.  She was just in time to see the flash of the November sunlight upon the steel caps of the last of the band of horsemen whose approach had been observed by Nat.  Only a very small portion of the avenue leading to Basildene could be seen from these upper casements, and the riders must have been close to the house before their approach was marked by the old man.

Now Joan flung open the casement in great excitement, and leaned far out.

“Hark!” she exclaimed, in great excitement, “I hear the sound of heavy blows, and of voices raised in stern command.”

“Open in the King’s name; open to the Prince of Wales!”

These words were distinctly borne to Joan’s listening ears as she stood with her head thrust through the lattice, every faculty absorbed in the strain of eager desire to hear.

“The King! the Prince!” she cried, her breath coming thick and fast, whilst her heart beat almost to suffocation.  “O Nat, good Nat! what can it mean?  The Prince! what can have brought him hither?”

“Doubtless he comes to save thee, sweet lady,” cried the old retainer, to whom it seemed but natural that the heir of England should come forth to save his fair young mistress from her fate.

But Joan shook her head, perplexed beyond measure, yet not able to restrain the wildest hopes.

The Prince —­ that noble youth so devoted to chivalry, so generous and fearless, and the friend of the twin brothers, one of whom was her lost Raymond!  Oh, could it be that some rumour had reached his ears?  Could it be that he had come to set her free?  It seemed scarce possible, and yet what besides could have brought him hither?  And at least with help so near she could surely make her woeful case known to him!

For the first time for many days hope shot up in Joan’s heart —­ hope of release from her hated lover by some other means than that of death; and with that hope came surging up the love of life so deeply implanted in human nature, the wild hope that her lover might yet live, that she had been tricked and deceived by the false Sanghurst —­all manner of vague and unformed hopes, to which there was no time to give definite form even in her thoughts.  She was only conscious that a ray of golden sunshine had fallen athwart her path, and that the darkness in which she had been enwrapped was changing —­ changing to what?

There were strange sounds in the house —­ a tumult of men’s voices, the clash of arms, cries and shouts, and the tread of many feet upon the stairs.

Joan’s colour came and went as she listened.  Yes, surely she heard a voice —­ a voice that sent thrills all through her —­ and yet it was not Raymond’s voice; it was deeper, louder, more authoritative.  But the footsteps were approaching, were mounting the turret stair, and Joan, with a hasty movement, flung over her shoulders a sweeping supertunic lined with fur, which Peter Sanghurst had placed in the room for her use, but which she had not hitherto deigned to wear.  She had but just secured the buckle and girdle, and concealed her boy’s garb by the means of these rich folds of velvet, before a hand was upon the latch of the door, and the same thrilling voice was speaking through the panels in urgent accents.