Damaris’s bosom rose and fell in a long shuddering sigh.  The room that was so large and bright swam before her, appeared to grow narrow, dark, and stifling.  A hateful and terrible presence overshadowed her; it was as though she had but to put forth her hand to touch a coffin-lid.  She no longer saw the forms about her, scarce felt the pressure of Sidney’s hand, knew not, so brave a lady was she, so fixed her habit of the court, that she smiled upon the group she was leaving and swept them a formal curtsy.  She found herself in the deserted outer gallery with Sidney,—­they were in the recess of a window, and he was speaking.  She put her hand to her brow.  “Is Henry Sedley dead?” she asked.

He answered her as simply:  “Yes, lady, bravely dead—­a good knight who rode steadfastly to that noblest Court of which all earthly courts are but flawed copies.”

As he spoke he regarded her anxiously, fearing a swoon or a cry, but instead she smiled, looking at him with dazed eyes, and her white hand yet at her forehead.  “I am his only sister,” she said, “and we have no father nor mother nor brother.  We have been much together—­all our lives—­and we are tender of each other....  Death!  I never thought that death could touch him; no, not upon this voyage.—­There was one who swore to guard him.”

Her companion made no answer, and she stood for a few moments without further word or motion, slowly remembering Darrell’s words.  Then a slight lifting of her head, a gradual stiffening of her frame; her hand fell, and the expression of her face changed—­no speech, but parted lips, and eyes that at once appealed and commanded.  She might have been some dark queen of a statelier world awaiting tidings that would make or mar.  He was the most chivalric, the best-loved, spirit of his time, and his heart ached that, like his own Amphialus, he must deal so sweet a soul so deadly a blow.  Seeing that it must be so, he told quietly and with proper circumstance, not the wild exaggeration and tales of aforethought treason which rumor had caught up and flung into the court, but the story as Sir John Nevil had delivered it to the Privy Council.  Even so, it was, inevitably, to this man and this woman, the story of one who had spoken where he should have bitten out his tongue; who, all unwillingly it might be, had yet betrayed his comrades, who had set a slur and a stain upon his order.

“He himself accuseth himself,” ended the speaker, with a groan.  “Avoweth that, wrung by their hellish torments, he made his honor of no account; prayeth for death.”

Damaris stood upright against the mullioned window.

“Where is he?” she asked, and there was that in her voice which a man might not understand.  He paused a moment as for consideration, then drew from his doublet a folded paper, gave it to her, and turned aside.  The maid of honor, opening it, read: 

To Sir Philip Sidney, Greeting: