Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since that night when he had hoped to have met Euctacie, and she must be believing him dead.  His first measure on the following day when he had been dressed and seated in his chair was to send for his casket, and with his slow stiff arm write thus:—­

’Mon Coeur, My own sweetheart,—­Hast thou thought me dead, and thyself deserted?  Osbert will tell thee all, and why I can scarce write.  Trust thyself to him to bring to me.  I shall be whole seeing thee.  Or if thou canst not come with him, write or send me the least token by him, and I will come and bear thee home so soon as I can put foot in stirrup.  Would that I could write all that is in my heart! 
                                            ‘Thy Husband.’

It was all that either head or hand would enable him to say, but he had the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, who was one of the few who understood him at half a word.  He desired Osbert to seek the lady out wherever she might be, whether still at court or in a convent, convey the letter to her if possible, and, if she could by any means escape, obtain from Chateau Leurre such an escort as she could come to England with.  If, as was too much to be feared, she was under too close restraint, Osbert should send intelligence home, as he could readily do through the Ambassador’s household, and Berenger trusted by that time to be able to take measures for claiming her in person.

Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his journey were needed, and there was an absolute commotion in the house when it was known that Berenger had been writing to his faithless spouse, and wishing to send for her.  Lord Walwyn came up to visit his grandson, and explain to him with much pity and consideration that he considered such a step as vain, and only likely to lead to further insult.  Berenger’s respect forced him to listen without interruption, and though he panted to answer, it was a matter of much difficulty, for the old lord was becoming deaf, and could not catch the indistinct, agitated words—­

‘My Lord, she is innocent as day.’

‘Ah!  Anan, boy.’

‘I pledge my life on her love and innocence.’

’Love!  Yes, my poor boy; but if she be unworthy?—­Eh?  Cecily, what says he?’

‘He is sure of her innocence, sir?’

’That is of course.  But, my dear lad, you will soon learn that even a gentle, good woman who has a conscience-keeper is too apt to think her very sense of right ought to be sacrificed to what she calls her religion.—­What is it, what is he telling you, Cecily?’

‘She was ready to be one of us,’ Berenger said, with a great effort to make it clear.

’Ah, a further snare.  Poor child!  The very softest of them become the worst deceivers, and the kindred who have had the charge of her all their life could no doubt bend her will.’

‘Sir,’ said Berenger, finding argument impossible, ’if you will but let me dispatch Osbert, her answer will prove to you what she is.’