"Trooper Browne in the corridor. Be still, child; lie down and rest."
But indeed there were footsteps, sounds of scuffling, of men disputing, and then the throwing open of a door. Through the length of the suite of rooms, Browne's voice rang out in warning.
"Madam," he shouted, "I could not hold him back!"
Men were trampling heavily through the rooms; even as her Majesty came down from the bed, the door of her chamber burst open—a man came reeling in, a trooper of the Guard, although his silver armour, rusted black, was drenched and stained with rain and mire, his face a mask of blood. He shouted hoarsely at the sight of her, then two Guardsmen following caught him in their arms, but he, struggling violently, broke away from them and fell at her very feet insensible.
Her Majesty knelt down beside the man, and full of pity lifted his bleeding head.
Sergeant Branscombe, standing at the salute, begged for the Queen's forgiveness.
"Madam," he pleaded, "we could not hold him back."
But she, in her white robe kneeling beside the man, pressed her small hands upon the spurting wound.
"Who is he?" she asked, "Oh, surely not—my cousin, Lancaster! He will die! He will die!"
"He is alive," Miss Temple's hands pressed hard upon his breast. "Quick, Sergeant Branscombe, water. You, trooper, bring the surgeon. What's this?" She found a strip of paper under the gorget. "A letter! Margaret, this is from Lyonesse!"