Mistress Mary was there, of course—the most skilful of all, and with her whole heart in the work. Yet she found time to come up to me and ask in a whisper,—
"Has he come in to-day?"
"No," I answered; "he comes with the Duke to-morrow. You will see him then, Mistress Mary." And her cheek kindled and glowed; yet there was a sorrowful look in her eyes also, and I noted it the more because upon such a day as this I should have thought nobody could have had aught but thoughts of joy and triumph.
As we were decorating a window together later on, and nobody else chanced to be by, I ventured to ask respectfully,—
"Is aught amiss, fair mistress?"
She looked at me, and suddenly the tears sprang to her eyes. She clasped her hands together, letting her wreath fall to the ground.
"O Dicon," she exclaimed, in a passionate way quite foreign to her usual calm, "how will this end—how will it end? Ah, if I only knew that ill and hurt would not come from it!"
"Why, Mistress Mary," I said in surprise, "you have been ever most forward to prophesy victory, even when things looked dark; and now, when all the world is full of confidence and hope, are you to fear and doubt?"
"Dicon," she said in a low tone, "I had a dream last night—a dream of terror and dread. And yesterday my guardian came to me and said terrible words."
"What did he say?" I ventured to ask.