CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
Sir Vincent did return that night; he had seen Kingston, he said. He was very late, and he was tired. He asked Deborah if Mistress Dinnage were with her.
'Yes, dear father. But you are going to sleep at home?'
'Ay; but I may be off early—too early for even thee, my bird of dawn.'
'Nay, father; I will be up, not to see thee off, but to hold thee here. Thou shalt not go tomorrow!'
He smiled. He looked pale. He kissed her fondly.
'Lady Wilful, I must. I want to see my boy. He is ever in trouble.'
'Nay; think not about it to-night, father. King has promised to find him out.'
And so they parted. Weary-hearted, with all the brightness called up for her father laid aside, Deborah sought her chamber, weeping. She recalled, the night when her father had told her Kingston Fleming was betrothed, her wild despair. But she was a child, and the bright morrow had then brought hope and healing. Now she was a woman, and a woman's sorrow lay deep within her breast. Tired out, Deborah undressed and lay down on her bed, not to wake and weep, but to sink into a deep dreamless slumber....