A secretary crept in timidly, offering up words, then with a gasp of fear recoiled before Ulster's eyes.
"A letter? Bring it here. Go."
The Duke saw the superscription, and a trembling seized him, so that he sank back into his chair, for the writing was in the hand of Brand, his adversary, strong, hard, ominous. He wrenched the cover open, bent, and read, his livid face and burning eyes set on the script.
And in effect the ultimatum ran: "Resign, or fight Lyonesse."
He looked up, his lips quivering, his face convulsed.
"I must, I must," he muttered. To resign was to face the Russian vengeance, to fight, destruction. "I must, I must!" he whispered. "I shall go to the Queen."
Then throwing himself upon the desk, he buried his face in his arms.
VI
THE PENANCE CHAMBER
There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young blood with lurid prophesy.