“Thy husband, lady—­the Earl of Gloucester? oh, it was to him too I came; the brother-in-arms of my sovereign, one that showed kindness to—­to Sir Nigel in his youth, ye will not, ye will not forsake him now?”

Few and well-nigh inarticulate as were those broken words, they betrayed much which at once excited interest in both the earl and countess, and told the reason of the lad’s earnest entreaty to see them alone.

“Forsake him!” exclaimed the earl, after carefully examining that the door was closed; “would to heaven I could serve him, free him! that there was but one slender link to lay hold of, to prove him innocent and give him life, I would do it, did it put my own head in jeopardy.”

“And is there none, none?” burst wildly from the boy’s lips, as he sprung from his knees, and grasped convulsively the earl’s arm.  “Oh, what has he done that they should slay him? why do they call him guilty?  He was not Edward’s subject, he owed him no homage, no service, he has but fought to free his country, and is there guilt in this? oh, no, no, save him, in mercy save him!”

“Thou knowest not what thou askest, boy, how wholly, utterly impossible it is to save him.  He hath hurled down increase of anger on his own head by his daring insult of King Edward’s herald; had there been hope before there is none now.”

A piercing cry escaped the boy, and he would have fallen had he not been supported by the countess; he looked at her pitying face, and again threw himself at her feet.

“Canst thou not, wilt thou not save him?” he cried; “art thou not the daughter of Edward, his favorite, his dearly beloved, and will he not list to thee—­will he not hear thy pleadings?  Oh, seek him, kneel to him as I to thee, implore his mercy—­life, life, only the gift of life; sentence him to exile, perpetual exile, what he will, only let him live:  he is too young, too good, too beautiful to die.  Oh! do not look as if this could not be.  He has told me how you both loved him, not that I should seek ye.  It is not at his request I come; no, no, no, he spurns life, if it be granted on conditions.  But they have torn me from him, they have borne him to the lowest dungeon, they have loaded him with fetters, put him to the torture.  I would have clung to him still, but they spurned me, trampled on me, cast me forth—­to die, if I may not save him!  Wilt thou not have mercy, princess? daughter of Edward, oh, save him, save him!”

It is impossible in the above incoherent words to convey to the reader even a faint idea of the agonized wildness with which they were spoken; the impression of unutterable misery they gave to those who listened to them, and marked their reflection in the face of the speaker.

“Fetters—­the lowest dungeon—­torture,” repeated Gloucester, pacing up and down with disordered steps.  “Can these things be? merciful heaven, how low hath England fallen!  Boy, boy, can it be thou speakest truth?”