The eyes blazed out again.

"My son is a hound!--a craven cur, that licks the hand that lashed him!--a poor court fool that thinks it joy enough to carry his bauble, and marvel at his motley coat and his silvered b.u.t.tons! That he should be my son,--and _his_!"

The voice changed so suddenly, that Amphillis could scarcely believe it to be the same. All the pa.s.sionate fury died out of it, and instead came a low soft tone of unutterable pain, loneliness, and regret. The speaker dropped down into her chair, and laying her arm upon the little table, hid her face upon it.

"My poor Lady!" said Perrote in tender accents--more tender than Amphillis had imagined she could use.

The lady in white lifted her head.

"I was not so weak once," she said. "There was a time when man said I had the courage of a man and the heart of a lion. Maiden, never man sat an horse better than I, and no warrior ever fought that could more ably handle sword. I have mustered armies to the battle ere now; I have personally conducted sieges, I have headed sallies on the camp of the King of France. Am I meek pigeon to be kept in a dovecote? Look around thee! This is my cage. Ha! the perches are fine wood, sayest thou? the seed is good, and the water is clean! I deny it not. I say only, it is a cage, and I am a royal eagle, that was never made to sit on a perch and coo! The blood of an hundred kings is thrilling all along my veins, and must I be silent? The blood of the sovereigns of France, the kingdom of kingdoms,--of the sea-kings of Denmark, of the ancient kings of Burgundy, and of the Lombards of the Iron Crown--it is with this mine heart is throbbing, and man saith, 'Be still!' How can I be still, unless I were still in death? And man reckoneth I shall be a-paid for my lost sword with a needle, and for my broken sceptre he offereth me a bodkin!"

With a sudden gesture she brushed all the implements for needlework from the little table to the floor.

"There! gather them up, which of you list. I lack no such babe's gear.

If I were but now on my Feraunt, with my visor down, clad in armour, as I was when I rode forth of Hennebon while the French were busied with the a.s.sault on the further side of the town,--forth I came with my three hundred horse, and we fired the enemy's camp--ah, but we made a goodly blaze that day! I reckon the villages saw it for ten miles around or more."

"But your Grace remembereth, we won not back into the town at after,"

quietly suggested Perrote.

"Well, what so? Went we not to Brest, and there gathered six hundred men, and when we appeared again before Hennebon, the trumpets sounded, and the gates were flung open, and we entered in triumph? Thy memory waxeth weak, old woman! I must refresh it from mine own."

"Please it, your good Grace, I am nigh ten years younger than yourself."

"Then shouldest thou be the more 'shamed to have so much worser a memory. Why, hast forgot all those weeks at Hennebon, that we awaited the coming of the English fleet? Dost not remember how I went down to the Council with thyself at mine heels, and the child in mine arms, to pray the captains not to yield up the town to the French, and the lither loons would not hear me a word? And then at the last minute, when the gates were opened, and the French marching up to take possession, mindest thou not how I ran to yon window that giveth toward the sea, and there at last, at last! the English fleet was seen, making straight sail for us. Then flung I open the contrary cas.e.m.e.nt toward the street, and myself shouted to the people to shut the gates, and man the ramparts, and cry, 'No surrender!' Ah, it was a day, that! Had there been but time, I'd never have shouted--I'd have been down myself, and slammed that gate on the King of France's nose! The pity of it that I had no wings! And did I not meet the English Lords and kiss them every one [Note 1], and hang their chambers with the richest arras in my coffers?

And the very next day, Sir Walter Mauny made a sally, and destroyed the French battering-ram, and away fled the French King with ours in pursuit. Ha, that was a jolly sight to see! Old Perrote, hast thou forgot it all?"

We are accustomed in the present day to speak of the deliverer of Hennebon as Sir Walter Manny. That his name ought really to be spelt and sounded Mauny, is evidenced by a contemporary entry which speaks of his daughter as the Lady of Maweny.

Old Perrote had listened quietly, while her mistress poured forth these reminiscences in rapid words. When the long waiting for the English fleet was mentioned, a kind of shudder pa.s.sed over her, as if her recollection of that time were painful and distinct enough; but otherwise she stood motionless until the concluding question. Then she answered--

"Ay, Dame--no, I would say: I mind it well."

"Thou shouldest! Then quote not Avena Foljambe to me. I care not a bra.s.s nail for Avena Foljambe. Hand me yonder weary gear. It is better than counting one's fingers, maybe."

Amphillis stooped and gathered up the scattered broidery, glancing at Perrote to see if she were doing right. As she approached her mistress to offer them, Perrote whispered, hurriedly, "On the knee, child! on the knee!" and Amphillis, blushing for her mistake, dropped on one knee.

She was hoping that the lady would not be angry--that she could be severely so, there could be no doubt--and she was much relieved to see her laugh.

"Thou foolish old woman!" she said to Perrote, as she took her work back. Then addressing Amphillis, she added,--"Seest thou, my maid, man hath poured away the sparkling wine out of reach of my thirsty lips; and this silly old Perrote reckons it of mighty moment that the empty cup be left to shine on the buffet. What matters it if the caged eagle have his perch gilded or no? He would a thousand times liefer sit of a bare rock in the sun than of a perch made of gold, and set with emeralds. So man granteth me the gilded perch, to serve me on the knee like a queen, and he setteth it with emeralds, to call me d.u.c.h.ess in lieu of Countess, and he reckoneth that shall a-pay the caged eagle for her lost liberty, and her quenched sunlight, and the grand bare rock on the mountain tops.

It were good enough for the dove to sit on the pigeon-house, and preen her feathers, and coo, and take decorous little flights between the dovecote and the ground whereon her corn lieth. She cares for no more.

The bare rock would frighten her, and the sun would dazzle her eyes. So man bindeth the eagle by a bond long enough for the dove, and quoth he, 'Be patient!' I am not patient. I am not a silly dove, that I should be so. Chide me not, old woman, to tug at my bond. I am an eagle."

"Ah, well, Dame!" said Perrote, with a sigh. "The will of G.o.d must needs be done."

"I marvel if man's will be alway G.o.d's, in sooth. Folks say, whatever happeth, 'G.o.d's will be done.' Is everything His will?--the evil things no less than the good? Is it G.o.d's will when man speaketh a lie, or slayeth his fellow, or robbeth a benighted traveller of all his having?

Crack me that nut, Perrote."

"Truly, Dame, I am no priest, to solve such matters."

"Then leave thou to chatter glibly anentis G.o.d's will. What wist any man thereabout?"

Perrote was silent.

"Open the window!" said the Countess, suddenly. "I am dying for lack of fresh air."

Lifting her hand to her head, she hastily tore off the barb and wimple, with little respect to the pins which fastened them, and with the result of a long rent in the former.

"That's for one of you to amend," she said, with a short laugh. "Ye should be thankful to have somewhat to do provided for you. Ay me!"

The words were uttered in a low long moan.

Perrote made no reply to the petulant words and action. An expression of tender pity crossed her face, as she stooped and lifted the torn barb, and examined the rent, with as much apparent calmness as if it had been damaged in the washing. There was evidently more in her than she suffered to come forth.

Note 1. This action, in the estimation of the time, was merely equivalent to a cordial shaking of hands between the Countess and her deliverers.

CHAPTER FIVE.

NEW AND STRANGE.

"I stretched mine empty hands for bread, And see, they have given me stones instead!"

"B.M."

Before anything more could be said, the door opened, and Lady Foljambe came in. She addressed herself at once to Perrote.

"Did I not bid you alway to lock the door when you should enter? Lo, here it is unlocked. Wherefore have you a key apart from mine, but that you should so do?"

"I cry you mercy, Dame," said Perrote, meekly. "Did you ever this before?"

"I mind not well, Dame."

"Well, of a surety! Call you this guarding a prisoner? Mind you not that which happed at Tickhill, when she 'scaped forth by aid of that knight--his name I forget--and had nigh reached the border of the liberties ere it was discovered? Is this your allegiance and duty?

Dame, I bid you good morrow."

"Better late than never, Avena," said the Countess, a little satirically. "Thou fond thing, there, lie over twenty years betwixt yon night at Tickhill and this morrow. And if the night were back, where is the knight? Nay, Avena Foljambe, I have nought to escape for, now."

"Dame, I must needs say you be rare unbuxom and unthankful."

"Ay, so said the fox to the stork, when he 'plained to be served with thin broth."

"Pray you, look but around. You be lodged fit for any queen, be she the greatest in Christendom; you need but speak a wish, and you shall have it fulfilled--"

"Namely, thou shalt not put me off with red silk to my broidery when I would have blue."

"You eat of the best, and lie of the softest, and speak with whom you would--"