As I had let him go, he would have naught to tell, and so was safe, where otherwise he might be hanged or buried in the hulks for knowing what I knew.  No, it were best he knew it not; but how was I to rid me of this burden?—­of this and of that other laid upon me for my love?

The question asked itself a many a time, and was as often answerless, before there came a stir without and voices in the corridor.  It was the changing of the guard, I guessed, and so it proved, since presently I heard the clanking of the officer’s sword, and double footfalls minishing into silence.

The sentry newly come paced back and forth to a low-hummed quick-step of his own, bestirring himself as one who, roused but now from sleep, would wake himself and be alert.  He made more noise than did the other, and that is why I marked it when the footfalls ceased abruptly.  A moment afterward the bar was lifted cautiously from its socket, the latch clicked gently, and the door swung open.  I looked, and must needs look again to make assurance sure.  For on the threshold stood my lady Margery, and just behind her some broad figure of a woman whom I knew for her stout Norman tiring-maid.

She gave me little time for any word of welcome or of deprecation.  While still I stood amazed she dragged the woman in with her and closed the door.  At that I found my tongue.

“Margery!  Why have you come?” I spoke in French, and she was quick to lay a finger on her lip.

“Speak to me in English, if you please,” she whispered.  “Jeanne knows nothing, and she need not know.  But you ask why I come:  could I do less than come, dear friend?”

I had always marveled that she could be so mocking hard at times, and at other times—­as now—­so soft and gentle.  And though I thought it cruel that I should have to fight my battle for the losing of her over again, I had not the heart to chide her.

“You could have done much less, dear lady,” I said, taking her hands in mine; “much less, and still be blameless.  You have done too much for me already.  I would you had not done so much, I would to God I had been hanged before you went upon your knees to that—­”

She freed one hand and laid a finger on my lip—­nay, it was her palm, and if I took a dying man’s fair leave and kissed it softly, I think she knew it not.

“Hush!” she commanded.  “Is this a time to harbor bitter thoughts?  I thought you might have other things to say to me, Monsieur John.”

“There is no other thing that I may say.”

“Not anything at all?”

“Naught but a parting hope for you.  I hope you will be true and loyal to yourself, Margery mia.”

“To myself?  I do not understand.”

“I think you do—­I think you must.”

“But I do not.”

I turned it over more than once in my mind if I should tell her all I had feared; should tell her how I came to kill a man and was fair set to kill another had I found a wedding afoot in the great fore-room.  I could not bring myself to do it, and yet I thought it would go hard with me if I should leave her still unwarned.