Chapter Three.
Belasez.
“And, born of Thee, she may not always take
Earth’s accents for the oracles of God.”
Felicia Hemans.
The last word had scarcely left the pedlar’s lips, when the door of the ante-chamber was flung open, and a boy of Margaret’s age burst into the room.
He was fair-haired and bright-faced, with a slender, elegant figure, and all his motions were very agile. Beginning with—“I say, Magot!”—he stopped suddenly both tongue and feet as he caught sight of the Countess.
“Well, Sir Richard?” suggested that lady.
“I cry you mercy, Lady. I did not know you were here.”
“And if you had done—what then?”
“Why, then,” answered Richard, laughing but colouring, “I suppose I ought to have come in more quietly.”