for that faithful love which had brought him
there that night.

"I must see her, Belasez."

"Is it wise, Sir Richard?"

"Wise!"

"Pardon me--is it right?"

"Right!--what is the wrong? She is my wife, in God's sight--she and
none other. What do I care for Pope or King? Is not God above both?
We plighted our vows to Him, and none but He could part us."

"Let me break it to her, then," said Beatrice, feeling scarcely so much
convinced as overwhelmed. "It will startle her if she be not told
beforehand."

Richard's only answer was to release Beatrice from his grasp. She
passed into Margaret's bower, and, was surprised to see a strange gleam
in the eyes of the dying girl.

"Beatrice, Richard is here. I know I heard his voice. Bring him to
me."

"God has told her," said Bruno, in an undertone, as he left the room,
with a sign to Beatrice and Doucebelle to follow.

They stood in the ante-chamber, minute after minute, but no sound came
through the closed door. Half an hour passed in total silence. At last
Bruno said--

"I think some one should go in."

But no one liked to do it, and the silence went on again.

Then Hawise same in, and wanted to know what they were all doing there.
She was excessively shocked when Doucebelle told her. How extremely
improper! She must go in and put a stop to it that minute.

Hawise tapped at the door, but no answer came. She opened it, and
stood, silenced and frightened by what she saw. Richard de Clare bent
over the bed, pouring passionate, unanswered kisses upon dead violet
eyes, and tenderly smoothing the tresses of the cedar hair.

"The Lord has been here!" said Beatrice involuntarily.

"O Lord, be thanked that Thou hast given Thy child quiet rest at last!"
was the response from Bruno.

Richard stood up and faced them.

"Is this God's doing, or is it man's?" he said, in a voice which sounded
almost like an execration of some one. "God gave me this white dove, to
nestle in my bosom and to be the glory of my life. Who took her from
me? Does one of you dare to say it was God? It was man!--a man who
shall pay for it, if he coin his heart's blood to do so. And if the
payment cost my heart's blood, it will be little matter, seeing it has
cost my heart already."

He drew his dagger, and bending down again, severed one of the long soft
tresses of the cedar hair.

"Farewell, my dove!" he murmured, in a tone so altered that it was
difficult to recognise the