When they rode into the court at Dunstanwolde House, the lacqueys, seeing them, drew up in state about the entrance.

“Look you,” said, in an undertone to his fellow, one of the biggest and sauciest of them, “’tis her Grace of Osmonde who returns, and we may be a great Duke’s servants if we carry ourselves with dignity.”

They bowed their lowest as the two passed between them, but neither the one nor the other beheld them, scarce knowing that they were present.  My lady’s sweet, tall body trembled, and her mouth’s crimson trembled also, almost as if she had been a child.  She could not speak, but looked up, softly smiling, as she led him to a panelled parlour, which was her own chosen and beloved room.  And when they entered it, and the door closed, my lord Duke, having no words either, put forth his arms and took her to his heart, folding her close so that she felt his pulsing breast shake.  And then he drew her to the gilded chair and made her sit, and knelt down before her, and laid his face upon her lap.

“Let it stay there,” he cried, low and even wildly.  “Let it stay there—­Heart.  If you could know—­if you could know!”

And then in broken words he told her of how, when she had sate in this same chair before and given him her dead lord’s message, he had so madly yearned to throw himself at her feet upon his knees, and hide his anguished face where now it lay, while her sweet hand touched his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered, very low and with a soft, helpless sob in her voice.  “I love you,” for she could think of no other words to say, and could say no more.  And with tears in his lion’s eyes he kissed her hands a thousand times as if he had been a boy.

“When I was in France,” he said, “and heard of the danger that you ran, my heart rebelled against you.  I cried that ’twas not just to so put a man to torture and bind him to the rack.  And then I repented and said you did not know or you would be more gentle.”

“I will be gentle now,” she said, “always, your Grace, always.”

“When the sun rose each day,” he said, “I could not know it did not rise upon your beauty, lying cold and still, lost—­lost to me—­this time, forever.”

Her fair hand covered her eyes, she shuddering a little.

“Nay, nay,” she cried.  “I—­nay, I could not be lost to you—­again.  Let us—­let us pray God, your Grace, let us pray God!”

And to his heavenly rapture she put forth her arms and laid them round his neck, her face held back that she might gaze at him with her great brimming eyes.  Indeed ’twas a wonder to a man to behold how her stateliness had melted and she was like a yearning, clinging girl.

He gazed at her a moment, kneeling so, and all the long years rolled away and he scarce dared to breathe lest he should waken from his dream.

“Ah, Heaven!” he sighed, “there is so much to tell—­years, years of pain which your sweet soul will pity.”