“The duke said it should be as I wished; that Master Brandon should escape, and remain away from London for a few weeks until the king procured his loan, and then be freed by royal proclamation.

“I saw Buckingham the next day, for I was very anxious, you may be sure, and he said the keeper of Newgate had told him it had been arranged the night before as desired.  I had come to Windsor because it was more quiet, and my heart was full.  It is quite a distance from London, and I thought it might afford a better opportunity to—­to see—­I thought, perhaps Master Brandon might come—­might want to—­to—­see Jane and me; in fact I wrote him before I left Greenwich that I should be here.  Then I heard he had gone to New Spain.  Now you see how all my troubles have come upon me at once; and this the greatest of them, because it is my fault.  I can ask no forgiveness from any one, for I cannot forgive myself.”

She then inquired about Brandon’s health and spirits, and I left out no distressing detail you may be sure.

During my recital she sat with downcast eyes and tear-stained face, playing with the ribbons of her hat.

When I was ready to go she said:  “Please say to Master Brandon I should like—­to—­see—­him, if he cares to come, if only that I may tell him how it happened.”

“I greatly fear, in fact, I know he will not come,” said I.  “The cruelest blow of all, worse even than the dungeon, or the sentence of death, was your failure to save him.  He trusted you so implicitly.  At the time of his arrest he refused to allow me to tell the king, saying he knew you would see to it—­that you were pure gold.”

“Ah, did he say that?” she asked, as a sad little smile lighted her face.

“His faith was so entirely without doubt, that his recoil from you is correspondingly great.  He goes to New Spain as soon as his health is recovered sufficiently for him to travel.”

This sent the last fleck of color from her face, and with the words almost choking her throat:  “Then tell him what I have said to you and perhaps he will not feel so—­”

“I cannot do that either, Lady Mary.  When I mentioned your name the other day he said he would curse me if I ever spoke it again in his hearing.”

“Is it so bad as that?” Then, meditatively:  “And at his trial he did not tell the reason for the killing?  Would not compromise me, who had served him so ill, even to save his own life?  Noble, noble!” And her lips went together as she rose to her feet.  No tears now; nothing but glowing, determined womanhood.

“Then I will go to him wherever he may be.  He shall forgive me, no matter what my fault.”

Soon after this we were on our way to London at a brisk gallop.

We were all very silent, but at one time Mary spoke up from the midst of a reverie:  “During the moment when I thought Master Brandon had been executed—­when you said it was too late—­it seemed that I was born again and all made over; that I was changed in the very texture of my nature by the shock, as they say the grain of the iron cannon is sometimes changed by too violent an explosion.”  And this proved to be true in some respects.