Athelwold; "but she is a good wife withal, and I love her for virtues
which few would call courtly."

He turned to a servant and bade him ask his mistress to come to the
castle hall, where the king expected her.

Athelwold waited with hopeful eyes; the king with curious expectation.
The husband knew how unattractive a toilet his wife could make if she
would; Edgar was impatient to test for himself the various reports he
had received concerning this wild rose of Devonshire.

The lady entered. The hope died from Athelwold's eyes; the pallor of
death overspread his face. A sudden light flashed into the face of the
king, a glow made up of passion and anger. For instead of the
ill-dressed and awkward country housewife for whom Athelwold looked,
there beamed upon all present a woman of regal beauty, clad in her
richest attire, her charms of face and person set off with all the
adornment that jewels and laces could bestow, her face blooming into its
most engaging smile as she greeted the king.

She had deceived her trusting husband. His story of treachery had driven
from her heart all the love for him that ever dwelt there. He had robbed
her of a throne; she vowed revenge in her soul; it might be hers yet;
with the burning instinct of ambition she had adorned herself to the
utmost, hoping to punish her faithless lord and win the king.

She succeeded. While Athelwold stood by, biting his lips, striving to
bring back the truant blood to his face, making hesitating remarks to
his guest, and turning eyes of deadly anger on his wife, the scheming
woman was using her most engaging arts of conversation and manner to win