It was Isabella, the Queen of the Red Chessmen, who had been obliged to yield.  She was young and proud, and it was she, indeed, who held the rule; for her father, the old Red King, had grown too imbecile to direct affairs; he merely bore the name of sovereignty.  And Isabella was loved by knights, pawns, and all; the bishops were willing to die in her cause, the castles would have crumbled to earth for her.  Opposed to her, stood the detested White Queen.  All the Whites, of course, were despised by her; but the haughty, self-sufficient queen angered her most.

The White Queen was reigning during the minority of her only son.  The White Prince had reached the age of nineteen, but the strong mind of his mother had kept him always under restraint.  A simple youth, he had always yielded to her control.  He was pure-hearted and gentle, but never ventured to make a move of his own.  He sought shelter under cover of his castles, while his more energetic mother went forth at the head of his army.  She was dreaded by her subjects,—­never loved by them.  Her own pawn, it is true, had ventured much for her sake, had often with his own life redeemed her from captivity; but it was loyalty that bound even him,—­no warmer feeling of devotion or love.

The Queen Isabella was the first to come out from her prison.

“I will stay here no longer,” she cried; “the blood of the Reds grows pale in this inactivity.”

She stood upon the marble steps; the May moon shone down upon her.  She listened a moment to a slight murmuring within the drawing-room window.  The Spanish lady, the Murillo-painted Spanish lady, had come down from her frame that bound her against the wall.  Just for this one night in the year, she stepped out from the canvas to walk up and down the rooms majestically.  She would not exchange a word with anybody; nobody understood her language.  She could remember when Murillo looked at her, watched over her, created her with his pencil.  She could have nothing to say to little paltry shepherdesses, and other articles of virtu, that came into grace and motion just at this moment.

The Queen of the Red Chessmen turned away, down into the avenue.  The May moon shone upon her.  Her feet trod upon unaccustomed ground; no black or white square hemmed her in; she felt a new liberty.

“My poor old father!” she exclaimed, “I will leave him behind; better let him slumber in an ignoble repose than wander over the board, a laughing-stock for his enemies.  We have been conquered,—­the foolish White Prince rules!”

A strange inspiration stole upon her; the breath of the May night hovered over her; the May moon shone upon her.  She could move without waiting for the will of another; she was free.  She passed down the avenue; she had left her old prison behind.

Early in the morning,—­it was just after sunrise,—­the kind Doctor Lester was driving home, after watching half the night out with a patient.  He passed the avenue to the Willows, but drew up his horse just as he was leaving the entrance.  He saw a young girl sitting under the hedge.  She was without any bonnet, in a red dress, fitting closely and hanging heavily about her.  She was so very beautiful, she looked so strangely lost and out of place here at this early hour, that the Doctor could not resist speaking to her.