“Well, Catherine?”

“Royal madam, a page, from his Grace the King, craves speech of Donna Marie.”

“Admit him then.”

The boy entered, and with a low reverence advanced towards Marie.  She looked up in his face bewildered—­a bewilderment which Isabella perceived changed to a strong expression of mental torture, ere he ceased to speak.

“Ferdinand, King of Arragon and Castile,” he said, “sends, with all courtesy, his royal greeting to Donna Marie Henriquez Morales, and forthwith commands her attendance at the solemn trial which is held to-morrow’s noon; by her evidence to confirm or refute the charge brought against the person of Arthur Stanley, as being and having been the acknowledged enemy of the deceased Don Ferdinand Morales (God assoilize his soul!) and as having uttered words of murderous import in her hearing.  Resolved, to the utmost of his power, to do justice to the living as to avenge the dead, his royal highness is compelled thus to demand the testimony of Donna Marie, as she alone can confirm or refute this heavy and most solemn charge.”

There was no answer; but it seemed as if the messenger required none—­imagining the royal command all sufficient for obedience—­for he bowed respectfully as he concluded, and withdrew.  Marie gazed after him, and her lip quivered as if she would have spoken—­would have recalled him; but no word came, and she drooped her head on her hands, pressing her slender fingers strongly on her brow, as thus to bring back connected thought once more.  What had he said?  She must appear against Stanley—­she must speak his doom?  Why did those fatal words which must condemn him, ring in her ears, as only that moment spoken?  Her embroidery fell from her lap, and there was no movement to replace it.  How long she thus sat she knew not; but, roused by the Queen’s voice uttering her name, she started, and looked round her.  She was alone with Isabella; who was gazing on her with such unfeigned commiseration, that, unable to resist the impulse, she darted forwards, and sinking at her feet, implored—­

“Oh, madam—­gracious madam! in mercy spare me this!”

The Queen drew her tenderly to her, and said, with evident emotion—­

“What am I to spare thee, my poor child?  Surely thou wouldst not withhold aught that can convict thy husband’s murderer?  Thou wouldst not in mistaken mercy elude for him the justice of the law?”

“No—­no,” murmured Marie; “let the murderer die; but not Stanley!  Oh, no—­no; he would not lift his hand against my husband.  Who says he slew him?  Why do they attach so foul a crime to his unshadowed name?  Let the murderer die; but it is not Arthur:  I know it is not.  Oh, do not slay him too!”

Marie knew not the wild entreaty breathing in her words:  but the almost severely penetrating gaze which Isabella had fixed upon her, recalled her to herself; a crimson flush mounted to cheek and brow, and, burying her face in the Queen’s robe, she continued less wildly—­