In the small room, where first he saw the Duke of Gloucester, De Lacy found Sir John de Bury.  The old Knight was slow to rally from his wound; and being scarcely convalescent when Richard drew in his forces, he had been left in command of Pontefract in place of Sir Robert Wallingford, who went with the King.  But lately his strength was coming back to him with swift pulsations and he was growing irritably impatient of his forced inactivity and of the obligation of office which held him stagnant while his sovereign rode to the wars.  For as yet, no news had reached this distant section of the actual happenings in the South and the bloodless collapse of the rebellion.

“Holy St. Luke! has Richard been defeated!” De Bury exclaimed, springing to his feet.

“Buckingham is dead and Tudor back in Brittany,” Aymer answered.

“Parbleu!  Stafford dead!”

“Aye—­on the block at Salisbury on All-Souls-Day.”

“On the block? . . .  Poor fool! . . .  Poor fool! . . .  Come, tell me about it.  But first, what brings you hither now?”

“The Countess of Clare.”

“Beatrix!  You have found her?” De Bury cried.

“No—­not her; but her abductor.”

“And he is hereabouts?”

De Lacy shook his head.  “He is with the army.”

“Then in God’s Name, why are you at Pontefract?”

“Easy, Sir John, easy,” Aymer answered, his hand on the other’s shoulder.  “Do you think I would be in Yorkshire if Beatrix were not there, also?”—­and forthwith he plunged into a narrative of the events from his encounter with Darby at Sheffield to the death of Buckingham.

“A pretty scheme of Darby’s, truly,” Sir John commented; “and the dog has played it well.  He has nerve uncommon so to brave the royal Richard in his very Court.  It is well for you there was no battle, or onfall even, else would you have got an arrow or a sword thrust from behind. . .  Now as to Beatrix; is she at Roxford?”

“There or at Kirkstall Abbey.”

“True enough; and a most likely place to conceal her the instant Darby was suspected.”

De Lacy took a quick turn up and down the room.  “God in Heaven, Sir John! has Beatrix come through this without injury or insult?”

“What!   What!   Injury or insult!   They would not dare------?” De Bury
cried passionately.

“They have dared to seize and hold her prisoner—­would they would dare no more.”

The old Knight sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. . .  “The heiress of the Clares—­the favorite of the Queen. . .  They would not dare.--Yet if they have------”

“Beatrix will be dead,” said De Lacy, “and naught left for me but vengeance.”

“Aye! she was ever a brave lass and would kill herself without a whit of hesitation.  Nathless, the rescue or the vengeance is for me, also—­I ride with you to-morrow?”

“But are you strong enough to risk it?”