In a moment the lord’s sword was out of its sheath, but the queen ran between the thirsty weapons, and in so doing her veil was deranged, and her face seen.
“I forbid thee, my lord, and thou—man of blood.”
“’Tis not she, ’tis Madame Henrietta,” murmured the puritan, and lowered his sword.
The lord’s sword, however, was still raised.
“Thou canst go, Arthur Talbot; thou mayest take her with thee. Go, both of ye, in peace. Go, and I prophecy that thou shalt weep bitter tears—that thou shalt sit apart and lonely, that thou shalt yearn for thy distant country, that thou shalt float in a sea of misfortunes. Begone! thou wanderer.”
Then the young lord trembled as he thought of his bride whom he was about to desert. But the loyalty of a cavalier was his honor; so he turned to the door and led Madame Henrietta over its threshold.
The puritan stood erect and motionless in the room waiting for retribution. He—he the rejected, the insulted, would triumph.
Through the window he saw them reach the bridge, pass it, pass the gate, to horse and away, away!
Still he waited.
Then came footsteps towards the room, those of the bride, her father, and several attendants.