"I wrote that poem," he cried. "I am the author whose name your Highness would know."
"You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by what he had heard.
Dyke made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm.
"For Bessie's sake," he whispered. "Now do you believe me?"
"But, Tom--"
"Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's receipt into Dyke's hand. "Read that, and be silent if you love your daughter."
Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in utter silence. Then, as he recovered speech, his voice sounded hoarsely, but under perfect control.
"Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for Mr. Moore."
Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from the room. Sir Percival started toward the door, a triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to face. Suddenly the desperate expression left the countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem instead of a disgraceful dismissal.
"You heard his Highness' order, my man?"