And the queen’s apartments, in which at sunset all her friends had assembled, presented less decided sounds of mourning and of wail, than the previous day.  Margaret was indeed still one minute plunged in tears and sobs, and the next hoping more, believing more than any one around her.  Agnes had tacitly accompanied her mother and Lady Mary to the royal boudoir, but she had turned in very sickness of heart from all her companions, and remained standing in a deep recess formed by the high and narrow casement, alone, save Isoline, who still clung to her side, pale, motionless as the marble statue near her, whose unconscious repose she envied.

“Speak, Isabella, why will you not speak to me?” said the queen, fretfully.  “My husband bade me look to thee for strength, for support under care and affliction like to this, yet thou keepest aloof from me; thou hast words of comfort, of cheering for all save me.”

“Not so, royal lady, not so,” she answered, as with a faint, scarcely perceptible smile, she advanced to the side of her royal mistress, and took her hand in hers.  “I have spoken, I have urged, entreated, conjured thee to droop not; for thy husband’s sake, to hope on, despite the terrible rumors abroad.  I have besought thee to seek firmness for his sake; but thou didst but tell me, Isabella, Isabella, thou canst not feel as I do, he is naught to thee but thy king; to me, what is he not? king, hero, husband—­all, my only all; and I have desisted, lady, for I deemed my words offended, my counsel unadvised, and looked on but as cold and foolish.”

“Nay, did I say all this to thee?  Isabella, forgive me, for indeed, indeed, I knew it not,” replied Margaret, her previous fretfulness subsiding into a softened and less painful burst of weeping.  “He is in truth, my all, my heart’s dearest, best, and without him, oh! what am I? even a cipher, a reed, useless to myself, to my child, as to all others.  I am not like thee, Isabella—­would, would I were; I should be more worthy of my Robert’s love, and consequently dearer to his heart.  I can be but a burden to him now.”

“Hush, hush! would he not chide thee for such words, my Margaret?” returned the countess, soothingly, and in a much lower voice, speaking as she would to a younger sister.  “Had he not deemed thee worthy, would he have made thee his? oh, no, believe it not; he is too true, too honorable for such thought.”

“He loved me, because he saw I loved,” whispered the queen, perceiving that her companions had left her well-nigh alone with the countess, and following, as was her custom, every impulse of her fond but ill-regulated heart.  “I had not even strength to conceal that—­that truth which any other would have died rather than reveal.  He saw it and his noble spirit was touched; and he has been all, all, aye, more than I could have dreamed, to me—­so loving and so true.”

“Then why fancy thyself a burden, not a joy to him, sweet friend?” demanded Isabella of Buchan, the rich accents of her voice even softer and sweeter than usual, for there was something in the clinging confidence of the queen it was impossible not to love.