"Let me hear the whole story. Is it all there, Mistress Falkingham?" said
the King, nodding towards the pages she held.

"It is not all here, your Majesty; but I can tell what so many in England
know, and something of what no one in England knows."

The Queen put out her hand as if to stay the telling, for she saw what an
impression her fair reader had made upon the King. But the young lady saw
no one save Charles--she did not note the entrance of two gentle men, one
of whom looked at her in surprise. This was Sir Richard Mowbray of
Leicester. The other was Lord Rippingdale (now lord chamberlain), who had
brought Sir Richard thither at the request of the King. Sir Richard had
been momentarily expected on his return from a mission to Spain, and my
Lord had orders to bring him to the King on the very instant of his
arrival.

The King waved his hand when Lord Rippingdale would have come forward,
and the young lady continued with the history of John Enderby. She forgot
her surroundings. It seemed as though she were giving vent to the
suppressed feelings, imaginations, sufferings and wrongs of years.
Respectfully, but sadly, when speaking of the dead King; eloquently,
tenderly, when speaking of her father; bitterly, when speaking of Oliver
Cromwell, she told the story with a point, a force and a passionate
intelligence, which brought to the face of Charles a look of serious
admiration. He straightened himself where he sat, and did not let his
eyes wander from the young lady's face. As she spoke of Sir Garrett
Enderby and his acts--his desertion when Lord Rippingdale laid siege to
the house, his quarrel with his father, the trial of the son, the
father's refusal to testify against him, and the second outlawing by
Cromwell--her voice faltered, but she told the tale bravely and