On a bench beneath a great cedar tree sat the pale Queen, the sun and shade flecked all over her white dress, her baby on her knee, and by her side her new lady, Margaret Lucas.
The garden was all abloom with white roses, the rich summer air full of the hum of bees and the thousand scents of June; the light was taking on a richer gold colour as it faded, and where the garden sloped westward to the orchards the dazzle of the setting sun danced in the leaves.
The scene seemed very far from war, from turmoil, from confusion, and blood-stained strife; among the mossy gables of the house some white pigeons strutted, and there was no other noise nor any indication of the army quartered near.
Prince Rupert came slowly over the lawn; his fringed leather breeches and Spanish boots were dusty, and his red cloak open on soiled buff and a torn scarf. He had a gloomy, reckless look, and his brow was frowning beneath the disordered black love-locks.
Charles stopped when he saw his nephew coming and asked abruptly—
"They will fight to-morrow?"
"I think they will," replied the Prince. He went up to the Queen and kissed her hand.
There was the dimness of many tears in that proud woman's eyes, and the delicacy of her beauty had turned to a haggard air of sickness; she had, however, the swift, hawk-like look of one whose courage is unbroken, and her pride was even more obviously shown now than in the days of her greatest splendour, when it had been cloaked with sweetness. Her worn, dark features, her careless dress and impatient glances, words, and movements were in great contrast to the careful splendour, the composed gravity, and the smooth youth of the blonde Margaret Lucas.
"Have you come to take His Majesty away from me?" cried the Queen to Rupert as his lips touched her thin, cold hand.
"He did promise to inspect the army to-night, Madame," returned Rupert, with a certain touch of indifferency in his manner: Charles was no soldier, and the Prince had little deference for his opinion on military matters.