From the villa doorway passed out Mistress Pen wick in fluttering white, with the waxy jasmine upon breast and hair.  Down she came, unattended, through aisles bordered by fragrant blossoms, traversing the way from door to postern-gate with quick, light steps.

She was not aware Monmouth had left a strong guard and orders to allow no one to enter save those he made provision for.

As her hand rested upon the gate, a guard stepped from behind a bower of iris and gently opened it for her.  She was somewhat taken aback by his presence.  The stalwart guard strode after her; she, noticing it, turned about and said sweetly for him to hold the gate open ’til she returned, that she would only be gone a very few minutes.

“My lady is alone upon the highway, and I could not suffer her to be so, begging permission.”

“Nay, I wish to be alone.  Remain at the gate.”

“It may not be, my lady; ’tis his Grace’s order to give thee proper escort outside the gate.”

“Ah, then—­” she turned from him and beckoned to a monk who appeared to be walking aimlessly upon the opposite side of the way, but at her bidding moved with alacrity.  When the guard saw her intention, he begged her to consider the Duke’s wish that she should communicate with no one.

“I was not aware, sir, that I am held as prisoner.  I’m quite sure his Grace was only kindly intentioned for my safety;—­and as for further vigilance, ’tis beyond his power to use it.”  The three now stood at the gate.  The monk looking intently at the guard, said,—­

“Where hath flown thy religion, Eustis?”

“’Tis a poor religion that hath not the grace to offer its adherents an honest living.”

“Ah! then thy faith is hinged upon the largesse of the damned.  There!—­take for the nonce thy meed in honest coin.”  The Abbe gave him a piece of gold and passed within the gate.  The sun now dropped from sight, leaving the villa terraces in sombreness, and brought into prominence glow worm and firefly and the sheen of Mistress Penwick’s frock.

“I have watched for thee ever since thou arrived, hoping to catch thine eye.—­Hast guarded the billet to the King, my child?”

“Here it is.”  She took from her bosom the letter.  The keen eyes of the Abbe saw the seal was intact and quickly put out his hand deprecating what her act implied.

“’Twas not that, my child; ’twas the fear that thou hadst been robbed, as we have.  We trust thee with all our hearts,” and she read not hypocrisy in the feint of benignancy.

“Thou hast been deceived into thinking that the Duke of Monmouth or Buckingham will arrange a meeting between thee and the King.  The former Duke is evil-intentioned toward thee.”

“Ah, my Father; thou dost sorely grieve me!  If thou didst not say it, ’twould be hard to believe; for surely he has been most kind to me.”

“But ’tis true, nevertheless.  He is now with the King and fretting for being so detained from thee.  He means to offer thee the protection of his favour; which means thou art to become an inmate of his seraglio.  Dost understand me, my child?”