Scarcely had she asked herself the question, when she distinctly heard footsteps without, and, concluding it must be Osbert, she passed through the window, and flew to meet him. She could just descry a figure wrapped in a mantle, advancing towards her from beneath a tree.
In another moment this person, whom she took to be her lover, reached her, and seized her hand. Startled by the proceeding, she involuntarily exclaimed, “Is it you?”
“Yes, ’tis I—Osbert,” rejoined the other, under his breath.
“I had almost given you up,” she returned. “I feared something had occurred to prevent your coming.”
The person she addressed made no reply. He had recognised her voice, and mentally ejaculated, “Can it be possible that it is Constance Tyrrell!”
“You do not answer,” she said, after a pause, “and your manner seems strange—very strange.”
“’Tis she, by all the saints!” muttered the other. “Let us go in!” he added, drawing her through the open window into the room.
No sooner were they within the influence of the light than the countenance of him she most dreaded on earth was revealed to Constance.
“The King!” she exclaimed, in accents of affright.
“Ay, the King,” rejoined Philip, regarding her with fierce exultation. “So, I have found you at last, and where I looked for you least. Little did I deem you were the beauty secluded with such jealous care by Osbert Clinton. Little did I expect, when I took the trouble to ascertain who he kept concealed, that I should be so richly rewarded. Never for a moment did I suppose that he would dare to rob me of my chief treasure. But he shall pay dearly for his audacity and treachery.”