The Great Hall had quickly filled with ladies and gentlemen. Mary Tudor had rapidly approached the dais, holding out one gracious hand to Wessex and vouchsafing but a cold, callous look to Ursula Glynde, who, like some young, wounded fawn, seemed to be standing at bay, facing this crowd of indifferent spectators who had literally come between her and her happiness.
It seemed as if Mary felt a cruel delight in bringing before the young girl's notice the hopelessness of her position, the irreparability of the breach which existed now between her and His Grace of Wessex.
The Queen's jealous eyes had already noted the cold salutation with which Wessex so readily left Ursula's side, in order to turn to the new-comers. His Grace was evidently glad to see the end of a painful interview, and Mary was too weak a woman not to rejoice at sight of the heartache which was expressed in Ursula's pallid face, and not to try to enhance the pain of the wound.
Therefore when Wessex respectfully kissed her hand she kept him close beside her, whispering tender words which she hoped her rival might hear.
"It seems like a beautiful dream, my lord," she said gently, "to see you once more at our Court. The ugly nightmare is over, and I am almost happy."
"I humbly thank Your Majesty," replied the Duke. "My whole life can henceforth be spent in expressing my gratitude for a graciousness, which I so little deserve."
"Nay! I pray you to put us to the test, my dear lord. My heart aches with the desire to grant your every whim."
"Then I beg of Your Majesty a command in France."
"You wish to leave me?" said Mary with tender reproach.
"I hope to save Calais for Your Majesty's crown."