he King
interrupted.

"Her wish runs with mine."

"Then what ails the matter? . . . Not De Bury surely?"

"Sir John is as willing as we. It is the behest of the dead Earl that
bars."

"Beatrix's father?"

"Yes; she promised him she would not wed before her twenty-fifth
birthday."

"Peste! A senseless thing to exact; she was little more than child.
As King I can absolve her from it."

"I fear that would not help the matter, Sire; Beatrix regards it as
sacred--it was given at the Earl's deathbed."

Richard made a gesture of annoyance. "Does no consideration lift the
obligation from her?" he demanded.

"Naught, as she views it now, but a question of life, honor, or
imperative necessity."

"Now may the Devil fly away with such foolishness! Wherefore shall the
dead rule the living? . . . How old is the Countess?"

"She was four and twenty last month."

"Great St. George! You have a wait, indeed; and ample time to pray for
the imperative necessity. Meanwhile, best continue to keep the
betrothal secret. It will likely save you both some embarrassment and
considerable gossip at the long delay."

Just then another bugle blared from the barbican.

"Sir John and Beatrix!" the Queen exclaimed.

Richard shook his head.

"It was Ratcliffe's call," he said.

A moment later the Master of Horse came at full gallop across the
courtyard.

Jumping from saddle and letting his horse run loose to be caught by the
grooms, he sprang up the steps. In the anteroom the page met him with
the information that Their Majesties were on the wall and were not to
be disturbed. But at the first word, Ratcliffe dashed into the King's
chamber and thence to the ramparts. Richard saw him coming and went
quickly to meet him.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Where is De Bury?" Ratcliffe asked.

"Gone for a ride with the Countess."

"I feared it. I found his horse at the foot of the hill, trotting
toward the castle from the West. There is blood on the saddle cloth,
and the rein is cut in twain at the bit."

"Foul work!" the King exclaimed. "Send an order to the camp for a
hundred men to scour the country toward the Aire, and let another fifty
muster before the barbican at daybreak; then come to me." . . . and
turning, he sauntered back to the Queen. "Come, my dear, let us go
in," he said, putting his arm through hers, "I must take up some
matters that Ratcliffe has brought. And do you remain, De Lacy;
perchance you