But the page made a quick return.

“What news?” said Finett.

“The lady is gone to rest; something discomposed, though, and out of spirits.  So says her maiden, whom I would have questioned more straitly, but she rebuked me sharply for my impertinence.”

“Pray you send and question her,” said Sir John.

“Nay,” returned Sir Gilbert, smiling, “I’ll be bound the lady is safe; and her maiden has other guess-matters to look to than letting out the secrets of her mistress’s chamber.”

They were obliged to rest satisfied, or rather unsatisfied, with this answer.  But the mystery was more and more inexplicable.  Either some laughable mistake or some deep-laid villany was intended.  Sir John dared not pursue the subject to this extremity.  He felt assured of her purity and honour.  Her manners, so confiding and unsuspicious, showed a heart unacquainted with guile.

After a sleepless night Sir John arose, feverish and unrefreshed.  He threw open the window of his chamber, which looked into the courtyard.  Near a side postern stood a grey palfrey, caparisoned for a lady’s use, and impatiently awaiting its burden.  The hour was too early for morning rambles, but the beast was evidently equipped for a journey.  Two other steeds were now led forth, as if for the attendants.  He caught a glimpse of Grace Gerard’s maid, who seemed, by her dress, to be of the party whose movements he was so anxious to ascertain.  He suspected this sudden departure was for the purpose of escaping without his observance.  He hurried towards the stairs:  just entering the corridor, he met Grace Gerard.  She was evidently confused at his appearance.  It was but for a moment; her spirit grappled with the occasion; and she replied firmly, and with becoming dignity, to his questions.

“Whither away, our beauteous queen?” said he, bowing almost to the ground.  “Are you bound for some isle of the Western Ind, getting the start of Phoebus in his nightly race to those gem-bearing climes?  Methinks the sun is departing from us, though but just risen.”

“’Tis my purpose to depart, Sir John.  This clime is too bright, and its beams too fervid, for a lady’s eye.”

“One word in sober speech:—­Wherefore?”

“I know your question, Sir John.  Time hastens, and I reply.  Your knight of the silver mantle I proclaim a recreant, as treacherous as he is base.  Sir John, for my—­no, for your own sake”——­

“Another stole into his place,” said he, interrupting her with great eagerness.  “A base-born changeling!—­some villain, who, under this disguise, abused our honourable intent; but say, peerless princess, to whose prowess we owe your rescue.”