“Of Sir Jeoffry?” he said.

“Of Sir Jeoffry,” my Lord Dunstanwolde answered; “but not so much of himself as of his poor lady.  At last she is dead.”

“Dead!” Roxholm exclaimed.  “Dead!” and his voice fell, and he stood a moment and watched the driving rain, full of strange thoughts.

“’Tis happier for her, surely,” he said.  “I—­one cannot feel sorrow for her.  How did she die, my lord?”

“As woefully and as neglected as she lived,” his lordship answered.  “She had given birth to another female infant, and ’twas plain the poor thing knew her last hour had come.  She was alone with the one ignorant woman who was all she had to aid her in her hour of trial.  The night before Sir Jeoffry had held a drinking bout with a party of his boon companions, and in the morning, when they were gathered noisily in the courtyard to go forth hunting, the old woman appeared in their midst to acquaint her master of the infant’s birth and to bring a message from her mistress, who begged her lord to come to her before he rode forth, saying that she felt strangely ill, and wished greatly to see him.”  His lordship paused a moment, and a shadow passed swiftly across his countenance, brought there by a sad memory.

Young Roxholm turned towards him and waited with a speaking look for his next words.

“Then—­my lord—?” he broke forth inquiringly.  Lord Dunstanwolde passed his hand over his forehead.

“He would not go,” he answered; “he would not go.  He sent a ribald message to the poor soul—­cursing the child she had brought into the world, and then he rode away.  The servants say that the old woman had left her mistress alone in her chamber and came down to eat and drink.  When she went back to her charge the fire had gone out—­the room was cold as the grave, and the poor lady lay stone dead, her head fallen upon her wailing infant’s body in such manner that, had not the child been stronger than most new-born things and fought for its life, it would have been smothered in its first hour.”

The boy Marquess turned suddenly away and took several hurried steps up the Long Gallery.  When he returned his forehead was flushed, his eyes sparkled with an inward fire, and his breath came quickly—­but he found no words to utter.

“Once,” said Lord Dunstanwolde, slowly, “I saw a tender creature die after her travail—­but she was beloved to worship, and our hearts stood still in our bosoms as we waited.  Mine has truly never seemed to beat since then.  Her child—­who might, perchance, have aided me to live again, and who would have been my hope and joy and pride, died with her.  This poor thing, unwanted, hated, and cast aside to live or die—­as if it were the young of some wild creature of the woods—­this one, they say, has the strength of ten, and will survive.  God have mercy on its evil fortunes.”

Young Roxholm stood with folded arms gazing straight before him again into the driving rain.  His brow was knit, and he was biting his boyish red lip.