Her companion made no answer, and she stood for a few moments without
further word or motion, slowly remembering Darrell's words. Then a
slight lifting of her head, a gradual stiffening of her frame; her hand
fell, and the expression of her face changed--no speech, but parted
lips, and eyes that at once appealed and commanded. She might have been
some dark queen of a statelier world awaiting tidings that would make or
mar. He was the most chivalric, the best-loved, spirit of his time, and
his heart ached that, like his own Amphialus, he must deal so sweet a
soul so deadly a blow. Seeing that it must be so, he told quietly and
with proper circumstance, not the wild exaggeration and tales of
aforethought treason which rumor had caught up and flung into the court,
but the story as Sir John Nevil had delivered it to the Privy Council.
Even so, it was, inevitably, to this man and this woman, the story of
one who had spoken where he should have bitten out his tongue; who, all
unwillingly it might be, had yet betrayed his comrades, who had set a
slur and a stain upon his order.

"He himself accuseth himself," ended the speaker, with a groan. "Avoweth
that, wrung by their hellish torments, he made his honor of no account;
prayeth for death."

Damaris stood upright against the mullioned window.

"Where is he?" she asked, and there was that in her voice which a man
might not understand. He paused a moment as for consideration, then drew
from his doublet a folded paper, gave it to her, and turned aside. The
maid of honor, opening it, read:

_To Sir Philip Sidney, Greeting_: