“How fares my Lady and mother?” was the response.
“Dame, much worse than when my son departed,” said Lady Foljambe, in a fluttered manner.
“Then I pray you to break my coming, and lead me to her forthwith,” said Lady Basset, in her style of stately calm.
A curtain was drawn aside, and Perrote came forward.
“Damoiselle Jeanne!” she said, greeting Lady Basset by the old youthful title unheard for years. “My darling, mine own dear child!”
A smile, not at all usual there, quivered for a moment on the calm fixed lips.
“Is this mine ancient nurse, Perrote de Carhaix?” she said. “I think I know her face.”
The smile was gone in a moment, as she repeated her wish to be taken immediately to the Countess.
Lady Foljambe felt she had no choice. She led the way to the chamber of the royal prisoner, requesting Lady Basset to wait for a moment at the door.
The Countess sat no longer in her cushioned chair by the window. She was now confined to her bed, where she lay restlessly, moaning at intervals, but always on one theme. “My children! my lost children! Will not God give me back one?”