He had made up his mind to depart, and was about to put his resolution into practice, when a gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. He held his breath to listen. There was surely someone at the door, for he heard the handle turn; it creaked upon its hinges, and a moment later a gentle step resounded on the floor, and he knew that he was not alone. Could it be Dorothy? He pushed the door of his retreat ajar and listened intently, but only the responsive throbbing of his own heart could he hear.
"Doll!" he exclaimed.
There was no reply.
"Doll," he repeated, in a little louder tone as he pushed door and tapestry aside and entered the room. "Doll!"
"It is not Dorothy, Master Manners," replied a gentle voice, "it is I,
Lettice, her maid."
His heart stood still; chilled with despair.
"Where is she?" he cried. "Tell me, will she come?"
"Nay, she cannot come; Dame Maude is with her, getting ready for the feast.
"And Dorothy cannot come," he repeated, with downcast eyes. "Hast thou seen her; has she had my message?"
"One may not speak with her when my lady is there," said the maid, "but she read it in my eyes. I would, Master Manners, I could help thee more, but I fear that cannot be."