the King, turning his keen eyes upon Isabel.

"To speak very truth, Sire," hesitated Isabel, "I did leave one little
matter."

She seemed reluctant to confess the omission; and Custance's face paled
visibly at this prospect of further sorrow in store.

"Which was that, fair Cousin?"

Henry was a perfect master of the art of expressing displeasure without
any use of words to convey it. Isabel knew in an instant that he
considered her to have failed in her mission.

"Under your gracious leave, my Liege," she said deprecatingly, "had your
Grace seen how my fair cousin took that which I did say, it had caused
you no marvel that I stayed ere more were spoken."

"We blamed you not, fair Cousin," responded Henry coldly. "What matter
left you unspoken?"

"An' it like your Grace to pardon me, touching her presence desired--"

"Enough said. All else spake you?"

"All else, your Highness' pleasure served," answered Isabel meekly.

"My `presence desired'!" broke in Custance. "What meaneth your Grace,
an' it like you? Our fair cousin did verily arede [tell] me that your
Grace commandeth mine appearing in London; and thither I had gone, had
it not pleased your Grace to win hither."

"So quoth she; but this was other matter," calmly rejoined the King.
"Our Council thought good, fair Cousin, that you should be of the guests
bidden unto the wedding of our cousin of Kent with the fair Lady Lucy of
Milan."

For one instant after the words were spoken, there was dead silence
through the room--the silence which marks the midst of a cyclone. The
next moment, Custance rose, and faced the man who held her life in his
hands. The spell of his mysterious power was suddenly broken; and the
old fiery spirit of Plantagenet, which was stronger in her than in him,
flamed in her eyes and nerved her voice.

"You meant _that_?" she demanded, dropping etiquette.

"It hath been reckoned expedient," was the calm reply.

"Then you may drag me thither in my coffin, for alive will I never go!"

"This, Custance, to the King's Highness' face!" deprecated her pardoned
and (just then) subservient brother.

"To his face? Ay,--better than behind his back!" cried the defiant
Princess. "And to thy face, Harry of Bolingbroke, I do thee to wit that
thou art no king of mine, nor I owe thee no allegiance! Wreak thy will
on me for saying it! After all, I can die but once; and I can die as
beseems a King's daughter; and I would as lief die an