“Alas, yes!” replied her husband, sorrowfully; “he hath done his character more injury by this last act than any which preceded.  Though men might wish less blood were shed, yet still, traitors taken in arms against his person justice must condemn; but a woman, a sad and grieving woman—­but do not weep thus, my gentle wife,” he added, tenderly.

“Can a daughter of Edward do other than weep, my husband?  Oh, if I loved him not, if my very spirit did not cling round him so closely that the fibres of both seem entwined, and his deeds of wrath, of exacting justice, fall on me as if I had done them, and overwhelm me with their shame, their remorse, then indeed I might not weep; but as it is, do not chide me, Gilbert, for weep I must.”

“Thou art too noble-hearted, Joan,” he said, kindly, as he circled her waist with his arm, “only too noble-hearted for these fearful times.  ’Tis but too sad a proof of the change in thy royal father, that he shuns thy presence now even as he once loved it.”

A confusion in the passage and ante-room disturbed their converse, and Gloucester turned towards the door to inquire the cause.

“Tis but a troublesome boy, demanding access to her highness the countess, my lord,” was the reply.  “I have asked his name and business, questions he deigns not, forsooth, to answer, and looks so wild and distracted, that I scarce think it accords with my duty to afford him admittance.  He is no fit recipient of my lady’s bounty, good my lord; trust me, he will but fright her.”

“I have no such fear, my good Baldwin,” said the princess, as, on hearing her name, she came forward to the centre of the chamber; “thou knowest my presence is granted to all who seek it, an this poor child seems so wild, he is the fitter object of my care.  They are using violence methinks; give him entrance instantly.”

The attendant departed, and returned in a very brief space, followed by a lad, whose torn and muddy garments, haggard features, and dishevelled hair indeed verified the description given.  He glanced wildly round him a moment, and then flinging himself at the feet of the princess, clasped her robe and struggled to say something, of which the words “mercy, protection,” were alone audible.

“Mercy, my poor child! what mercy dost thou crave?  Protection I may give thee, but how may I show thee mercy?”

“Grant me but a few moments, lady, let me but speak with thee alone.  I bear a message which I may not deliver to other ears save thine,” said or rather gasped the boy, for he breathed with difficulty, either from exhaustion or emotion.

“Alone!” replied the countess, somewhat surprised.  “Leave us, Baldwin,” she added, after a moment’s pause.  “I am privately engaged for the next hour, denied to all, save his grace the king.”  He withdrew, with a respectful bow.  “And now, speak, poor child, what wouldst thou?  Nay, I hear nothing which my husband may not hear,” she said, as the eyes of her visitor gazed fearfully on the earl, who was looking at him with surprise.