“Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her at the font—Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?”
Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sank her voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she just caught the words.
“The Lady Isabel.”
Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go.
“Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it more bitter?”
Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where the tiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in a small wicker cage.
“Is his lot sweet, Lady?”
“I trow not, in good sooth,” said Philippa; “but his is like mine.”
“I cry you mercy,” answered the lavender, shaking her head. “He hath known freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot—not yours, Lady.”
Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor caged wings were beating vainly against the wicker-work, until he wearily gave up the attempt, and sat quietly on the perch, drooping his tired head.