With these words he quitted the chapel before his late enemy had sufficiently recovered his faculties to recognize his preserver.

Leonard Ashton, for whom Eustace inquired, had, it appeared, saved himself by making full confession, and had been sent home, in deep disgrace, though spared public dishonour.

It was some few days after these events that the presence of Lady Agnes de Clarenham was requested in the parlour of her nunnery, which was some miles distant from Bordeaux, by a person who, as the porteress informed her, was the bearer of a message from the Princess of Wales.  She descended accordingly, but her surprise was great on beholding, instead of one of the female attendants of her mistress as she had expected, the slender figure of the young Knight with whom she had last parted at the hostelry.

Her first feeling was not one of kindness towards him.  Agnes had indeed grieved and felt indignant when she saw him oppressed and in danger from her brother’s treachery, but, in these days of favour, she could not regard with complacency the cause of her brother’s ruin, and of the disgrace of her house.  She started, and would have retreated, but that he prevented, by saying, in a tone which had in it more of sorrow than of any other feeling, “Lady Agnes, I pray you to hear me—­for you have much to forgive.”

“Forgive!  Nay, Sir Eustace, it is you who have so much to forgive my unhappy house!  Oh, can you,” she added, as the countenance and manner recalling long past days made her forget her displeasure, “can you tell me where the wretched one has shrouded his head from the shame which even I cannot but confess he has merited?”

“I heard of the Bar—­of your brother this very morn,” said Eustace, “from one of the good brethren of the Convent where he has taken shelter, the Convent of the Augustine friars of St. Mary; they spoke of him as amended in health, and, though sorely dejected, returning, they hoped, to a better spirit.’

“Thanks, Sir Eustace, even so do I hope and pray it may be—­since repentance is the only good which can yet be his.  But tell me, Sir Eustace—­for vague rumours only reach us in this lonely cell—­ was it true that the populace pursued the fallen one with clamours, and might even have slain him, but for his rescue by a gallant Knight, who braved their utmost fury?”

“It was even so, Lady,” said Eustace, with some embarrassment.

“Oh! who was that noblest of Knights, that I may name him in my most fervent prayers? who has that strongest claim on the gratitude of the broken-hearted sister?”

“Nay, Lady, it was but common duty, the mere mercy of a Christian man, who could not see a fellow-creature die such a death, without attempting to save him.”

“Oh, Sir Eustace! it is not like your former self to deny the greatness of a noble deed!  I will not be robbed of my gratitude!  Tell me the name of that most noble of men!”