AT Angèle’s entrance a form slowly raised itself on a couch, and a voice, not Michel’s, said: “Mademoiselle—by our Lady, ’tis she!”
It was the voice of the Seigneur of Rozel, and Angèle started back, amazed.
“You, monsieur—you!” she gasped. “It was you that sent for me?”
“Send? Not I—I have not lost my manners yet. Rozel at court is no greater fool than Lemprière in Jersey.”
Angèle wrung her hands. “I thought it De la Forêt who was ill. The surgeon said to come quickly.”
Lemprière braced himself against the wall, for he was weak and his fever still high. “Ill?—not he! As sound in body and soul as any man in England. That is a friend, that De la Forêt lover of yours, or I’m no butler to the Queen. He gets leave and brings me here, and coaxes me back to life again—with not a wink of sleep for him these five days past till now.”
Angèle had drawn nearer, and now stood beside the couch, trembling and fearful, for it came to her mind that she had been made the victim of some foul device. The letter had read: “Your friend is ill.” True, the seigneur was her friend, but he had not sent for her.
“Where is De la Forêt?” she asked, quickly.
“Yonder, asleep,” said the seigneur, pointing to a curtain which divided the room from one adjoining.