“For you, Robin,” she said, “there are books.  I know ’tis books and learning you long for, and you shall have them.  His Grace’s Chaplain has promised me to teach you.”

The boy clasped the books under his arm, hugging them against his breast, and when her Grace turned to the next newcomer he seized a fold of her robe and kissed it.

“Who are those children?” the Captain-General asked.  “They do not look like rustics.”

“Those two she rescued also,” answered Mistress Anne in a low voice.  “She found them in a thieves’ haunt being trained as pickpockets.  They are the cast-off offspring of a gentleman who lived an evil life.”

“Was she told his name?”

“Yes,” Mistress Anne said, lower still; “’twas a gentleman who was—­lost.  Sir John Oxon.”

The mystery of this gentleman’s disappearance was a thing forgotten, but Mistress Anne’s hearer recalled it, and that the man had left an evil reputation, and that ’twas said that in the first bloom of his youth he had been among the worshippers of the Gloucestershire beauty, and there passed through the old Duke’s mind a vague wonder as to whether the Duchess remembered girlish sentiments the hoyden had lived through and forgot.

It seemed the man’s name being once drawn from the past was not to be allowed to rest, for later in the day he heard of him again, and curiously indeed.

There came in the afternoon from town a sturdy, loud-voiced country gentleman, with a red, honest face and a good-humoured eye, and he was so received by the family—­by his Grace, who shook him warmly by the hand, by the Duchess, who gave him both hers to kiss, and by the young ones, who cried out in rejoicing over him—­that their distinguished guest perceived him to be an old friend who was, as it were, an old comrade.

And so it proved, for ’twas soon revealed to him by the gentleman himself (whose name was Sir Christopher Crowell, and whose estate lay on the borders of Warwickshire and Gloucestershire) that he had been one of the boon companions of her Grace’s father, Sir Jeoffry Wildairs, and he had known her from the time she was five years old, and had been first made the comrade and plaything of a band of the worst rioters in three counties.

“Ay!” he cried, exultantly, for he seemed always exultant when he spoke of her Grace, who was plainly his idol.  “At seven she would toss off her ale, and sing and swear as wickedly as any man among us, and had great black eyes that flashed fire when we crossed her, and her hair hung below her waist, and she was the most beauteous child-devil and the most lawless, that man or woman ever clapt eyes on.  And to behold her now! to behold her now!” And then he motioned towards the little Anne, who was flashing-eyed, and long-limbed, and a brown beauty. “’Tis my Lady Anne who is most like her,” he said; “but Lord! she hath been treated fair by Fortune, and loved and cherished, and is a young queen already.”