The castle, which stood as an outpost to the town, was grimly fortified at the base, and the walls of Newark held cannon and soldiery; but none of this was visible to the three on the old ramparts. The scene was one of perfect peace, of that peculiar rich and tender beauty which seems only possible to England, and which not even civil war had here been able to destroy.
The King seated himself on a bench which stood against one of the buttresses of the castle, the white dog gravely placed himself at his feet, while the two Cavaliers remained standing. The three figures, aristocratic, finely dressed, at once graceful and careless, well fitted the scene.
The King, though worn and haggard, was still a person eminently pleasing to the eye; the Marquess, a little past the meridian of life, was yet notable for his splendid presence; and Lord Digby, at once a philosopher and a courtier, set out a handsome appearance with rich clothes, both gorgeous and tasteful.
Charles, after being sunk for some minutes in contemplation of the prospect below him, turned to Newcastle with a smile both tender and whimsical.
"The Queen writes me, my lord," he said, "that there is a certain gentlewoman with her in Paris who often discourseth of your excellencies. Have you any knowledge of whom this lady can be?"
The Marquess flushed at this unexpected allusion, and his right hand played nervously at his embroidered sword band.
"I only know one lady in Her Majesty's service," he smiled, "and she is scarce like to flatter me or any man, being most cold, most shy. Sir, it is Margaret Lucas, and I met her when she was attending the Queen at Oxford."
"It is Margaret Lucas that I speak of," replied Charles. "Dear Marquess, I think her a very noble lady. Will you not write to her in Paris and console her exile?"
The Marquess answered with a firm sadness—