As his burly figure had moved out of sight, Madam Anastasia turned with some asperity:—
“Indeed, Mistress Harcourt, I marvel at you! Life nothing left for you, forsooth? Tut, tut! Is not the best part of it before you? What have you done with your good youth, answer me that—not even borne a soul to God’s service?”
“Why, mother,” Diana exclaimed, and the tears sprang to her eyes. “Do you know my history, and chide me? Oh, I am dead, and this is my tomb. And truly, ’tis best so; since, when I lived in the world, I brought—God knows unwittingly—dire sorrow on two noble hearts that loved me.”
The Abbess thrust her hands impatiently up her big sleeves.
“Tush, child! Shouldst have made thy choice boldly. And he whom you had left of the two would be no worse off than now. This shilly-shally likes me not. In a convent, and no nun! A lovely, free woman, and no wife! Either wed or pray, say I. Nay, my dear, though I threatened your cousin with it, I have known it long: your vocation is not with us! With the blessing of God, I’ll yet give the house a feast on the day of Mistress Harcourt’s wedding with my Lord Rockhurst’s son!”
The renewal of clamour without, the report of a musket, the shattering of a few more panes of glass in the high windows, all but drowned the valiant woman’s words. Yet Diana had caught the drift of them, and clasped the stout shoulders in sudden embrace.
“Wedding! ’Tis more like we feast with death this day!”
“Why, then, ’tis the best feast of all,” cried the Abbess, petulantly.
There came three measured, emphatic blows upon the door. Then, above the loud, continuous howl of the mob, a ringing call:—