"'Tis a few weeks gone, Frid," said Walter, kindly. "Dear heart, I am sorry if I started thee. I thought he had been little more than a name to either of you."
"How died he, and where? Do tell me all."
"Nay, good sister, for how he died must we remit to God. But for where, it was in the waves of the sea—the British Channel, betwixt Calais and Dover. His body was washed up on the sands of Dover, and was there found by the fishers, a dead corpse, stripped of all."
"But was he drowned, Wat? My poor master!"
"The Lord wot, dear heart. The matter had the look of a shipwreck, but no boat was found. If he so were wrecked, or fell from the cliff of misadventure, or—well, whatso it were—who shall tell thee? The sea hath given up her dead, but blabbeth none of their secrets."
This is all that was ever known of the death of Henry Duke of Exeter. The days of his mourning were ended: but how they closed—whether by accident, or shipwreck, or by the worse violence which Walter would not suggest openly—only his God and Father knows.
A few tears stole from Frideswide's eyes. She had felt for her noble master very deep compassion.
"On whose soul God have mercy!" she said with an accent of tender regret. "He hath his little Nan at the last.—Annis! art thou not sorry at all?"
The last words were spoken rather reproachfully.
"I am sorry," said Agnes. But she said it in tones that sounded even and hard: and leaving her work on the settle where she had been sitting, she rose and quitted the room.