Amphillis did as she was told. The lady, after offering her hand for the kiss, turned it and gently lifted the girl’s face.
“Dost thou serve God?” she said, in a voice which matched her eyes.
“I hope so, Dame,” replied Amphillis.
“I hope nothing,” said the mysterious lady. “It is eight years since I knew what hope was. I have hoped in my time as much as ever woman did. But God took away from me one boon after another, till now He hath left me desolate. Be thankful, maid, that thou canst yet hope.”
She dropped her hand, and went back to her work with a weary sigh.
“Dame,” said Perrote, “your Grace wot that her Ladyship desires not that you talk in such strain to the damsels.”
The white face changed as Amphillis had thought it could not change, and the sunken eyes shot forth fire.
“Her Ladyship!” said the widow. “Who is Avena Foljambe, that she looketh to queen it over Marguerite of Flanders? They took my lord, and I lived through it. They took my daughter, and I bare it. They took my son, my firstborn, and I was silent, though it brake my heart. But by my troth and faith, they shall not still my soul, nor lay bonds upon my tongue when I choose to speak. Avena Foljambe! the kinswoman of a wretched traitor, that met the fate he deserved—why, hath she ten drops of good blood in her veins? And she looks to lord it over a daughter of Charlemagne, that hath borne sceptre ere she carried spindle!”
Mistress Perrote’s calm even voice checked the flow of angry words.
“Dame, your Grace speaks very sooth (truth). Yet I beseech you remember that my Lady doth present (represent) an higher than herself—the King’s Grace and no lesser.”