“Gone forth,” the servant believed, “to ride on the open space near St. Ursula’s Convent.”

“None left at home?”

“None, noble Lady.”

“None,” repeated Lady Maude, “save the little Lord Richard, whose baby company your pageship would hardly esteem.  You must try to endure the quietness of the lady’s chamber, unless you would wish to be at once introduced to the grave master of the Damoiseaux.”

At this moment Arthur’s eye fell upon a lady who had just emerged from a long shady alley, up which she had been slowly walking, and the bright look of recognition which lighted up his face, was so different from the shy and constrained expression he had hitherto worn, that Lady Maude remarked it, and following his gaze, said, “Lady Agnes de Clarenham?  Ah yes, she is of kin to you.  Let us go meet her.”  Then, as they approached, she said, “Here, Agnes, I have brought you a young cousin of yours, whom the Prince has just conducted into my mother’s chamber, where he bore so rueful a countenance that I grew pitiful enough to come forth on a bootless errand after his fellow Damoiseaux, who, it seems, are all out riding.  So I shall even leave him to you, for there is a troubadour in the hall, whose lay I greatly long to hear.”

Away tripped Lady Maude, well pleased to be free from the burthen her good-nature had imposed on her.

“Arthur,” exclaimed Agnes, “what joy to see you!  Is your uncle here?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, “but oh, Cousin Agnes! if you had been by to hear the foul slanders which Sir Fulk has been telling the Prince—­oh, Agnes! you would disown him for your brother.”

“Arthur,” said Agnes, with a voice almost of anguish, “how could he —­why did he tarry so long on the road?”

“How could we come on when the Duke of Brittany himself said it was certain death or captivity?  We were forced to wait for an escort.  And now, Agnes, think of your brother saying that Uncle Eustace carried off the rents of Lynwood, when every man in the Castle could swear it was only the money Father Cyril had in keeping for his inheritance.”

“Alas!” said Agnes.

“And the Prince will believe it—­the Prince looks coldly on him already, and my uncle loves the Prince like his own life.  Oh, he will be ready to die with grief!  Agnes!  Agnes! what is to be done?  But you don’t believe it!” he proceeded, seeing that she was weeping bitterly.  “You do not believe it—­you promised you never would!  Oh say you do not believe it!”

“I do not, Arthur; I never believed half they said of him; but oh, that long delay was a sore trial to my confidence, and cruelly confirmed their tales.”

“And think of Fulk, too, hindering the Prince from inquiring, because he says he would spare my uncle for my father’s sake, when the truth is, he only fears that the blackness of his own designs should be seen!  And Gaston, too, he slandered.  Oh, Agnes!  Agnes! that there should be such wickedness, and we able to do nought!”