"We fight to-morrow, Mary. I mean to surprise their outposts."
A pause of silence fell. The sunlight was slipping lower through the trees, and lay like flat gold on the lawn; the last brilliance of the day lay in the fair locks of Margaret Lucas, in the embroideries of her gown, in the swords of King and Prince, and over the frail figure of the undaunted Queen.
"I shall see Your Majesty at the camp after supper?" asked Rupert.
"Yes—sooner," replied Charles.
The Queen looked keenly at the young man on whom so much depended in the issue of to-morrow, and seemed as if she was about to make some appeal or exhortation; but she turned away with a mere quiet farewell. The King followed her with a smile to his nephew.
Margaret Lucas remained under the great cedar tree and Rupert lingered.
"The white roses are again in bloom," he said.
"When they next flourish may the King be safe in London again!" cried the lady.
"Amen," said Rupert. "Do you know the noble Marquess of Newcastle, Mrs. Lucas?" he added, with a smile.
A bright colour mounted to her alert face.