His Grace had much to do at this time and did it well, but the days seemed long, and each piece of English gossip he heard recounted added to the length of the twenty-four hours.  Then there came a story which created an excitement greater than any other, and was chattered over with a vivacity which made him turn pale.

In London the wonderful Amazon Milady Dunstanwolde had provided the town with a new example of her courage and daring spirit.

“There was a man who owned the most dangerous horse in the country—­a monster, a devil.”  So his Grace heard the history related for the first time in a great lady’s salon to breathlessly delighted listeners.  “The animal was a horror of vice and temper, but beautiful, beautiful.  A skin of black satin, a form incomparable!  He has three grooms who take care of him, and all of them are afraid; he bites, he kicks, he rises on his hind legs and falls on those who ride him.  None but those three men dare try to manage him.  Each one is a wonderful rider and hopes to win or subdue him.  It is no use.  One morning the first of the three enters his stable and does not come out.  He is called and does not answer.  Someone goes to look.  He is there, but he lies in a heap, kicked to death.  A few days later the second one manages to mount the horse, taking him by surprise.  At first the animal seems frightened into quietness.  Suddenly he begins to run; he goes faster and faster, and all at once stops, and his rider flies over his head and is taken up with a broken neck.  His owner, who is a horse dealer, orders him to be shot, but keeps him for a few days because he is so handsome.  Who, think you, hears of him and comes to buy him?  It is a lady.  ’He is the very beast I want,’ she says.  ’It will please me to teach him there is someone stronger than himself.’  Who is it?” asked the narrator, striking her fair hands together in a sort of exultation.

“The Countess of Dunstanwolde!” broke in a voice, and all turned quickly to look at the speaker.  It was the Duke of Osmonde.

How did Monsieur le Duc know at once, they asked laughing, and he answered them with a slight smile, though someone remarked later that he had looked pale.  He had known that she was a marvellous horsewoman, he had seen her in the hunting-field when she had been a child, he had heard of her riding dangerous animals before.  Everyone knew that she was without fear.  There was no other woman in England who would dare so much.

He spoke to them in almost ordinary tones, and heard their exclamations of admiration or prophetic fright to the end, but when he had driven homeward and was alone in his own apartment he felt himself cold with dread.

“And I wait here at the command of a Queen,” he said, “and cannot be loosed from my duty.  And Fate may come between again—­again!”—­and he almost shuddered the next instant as he heard the sound which broke from his lips, ’twas so like a short, harsh laugh which mocked at his own sharp horror. “’Tis not right that a woman should so play with a man’s soul,” he cried fiercely; “’tis not fair she should so lay him on the rack!”