“Good Lord!” cried Sir Chris, swallowing a lump which rose, he knew not why, in his throat.  “What a strange creature thou art!”

His Grace’s couriers went back and forth to France, and upon his estates the people prepared their rejoicings for the marriage-day, and never had Camylott been so heavenly fair as on the day when the bells rang out once more, and the villagers stood along the roadside and at their cottage doors, courtesying and throwing up hats and calling down God’s blessings on the new-wed pair, as the coach passed by, and his Grace, holding his lady’s hand, showed her to his people, seeming to give her and her loveliness to them as they bowed and smiled together—­she almost with joyful tears in her sweet eyes.

In her room near the nurseries, at the window which looked out among the ivy, Nurse Halsell sat, watching the equipage as it made its way up the long avenue, and might be seen now and then between the trees, and her old hands trembled in her lap, for very joy.  And before the day was done his Grace, knocking on the door gently, brought his Duchess to her.

“And ’twas you,” said her Grace, standing close by her chair, and holding the old hand between her own two, which were so white and velvet warm, “and ’twas you who held him in your arms when he was but a little new-born thing, and often sang him to sleep, and were so loved by him.  And he played here—­” and she looked about the apartment with a tremulous smile.

“Yes,” said his Grace, with a low laugh of joyful love, “and now I bring you to her, and ’tis my marriage-day.”

Nurse Halsell gazed up at the eyes which glowed above her.

“’Tis what his Grace hath waited long for,” she said, “and he would have died an unwedded man had he not reached it at last.  ’Tis sure what God ordained.”  And for a minute she looked straight and steady into the Duchess’s face.  “A man must come to his own,” she said, and bent and kissed the fair hand with passionate love, but her Grace lifted the old face with her palm, and stooped and kissed it fondly—­gratefully.

Then the Duke took his wife to the Long Gallery and they stood there, he holding her close against his side, while the golden sun went down.

“Here I stood and heard that you were born,” he said, and kissed her red, tender mouth.  “Here I stood in agony and fought my battle with my soul the first sad day you came to Camylott.”  And he kissed her slow and tenderly again, in memory of the grief of that past time.  “And here I stand and feel your dear heart beat against my side, and look into your eyes—­and look into your eyes—­and they are the eyes of her who is mine own—­and Death himself cannot take her from me.”

CHAPTER XXIX

At the Cow at Wichben