determinedly; for she now saw Lord Rippingdale in the chamber. Whenever
she had mentioned his name in the narrative, it was with a slight
inflection of scorn, which caused the King to smile; and when she spoke
of the ruin of Enderby House, her brother's death and her father's years
of exile, tears came into the Queen's eyes, and the King nodded his head
in sympathy.

Sir Richard Mowbray, with face aflame, watched her closely. As she
finished her story he drew aside to where she could not see him without
turning round. But Lord Rippingdale she saw with ease, and she met his
eyes firmly, and one should say, with some malicious triumph, were she
not a woman.

"My lord Rippingdale," said the King, slowly and bitingly, "what shall be
done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?"

"Were I Mordecai I could better answer that question, Sir," was my Lord's
reply.

"Perhaps my Lord Rippingdale could answer for Haman, then," returned his
Majesty.

"My imagination is good, but not fifty cubits high, Sir."

The answer pleased the King. For he ever turned life into jest--his
sorrows and his joys. He rose motioning towards the door, and Lord
Rippingdale passed out just behind him, followed by Sir Richard Mowbray,
who stole a glance at the young chronicler as he went. She saw him, then
recognised him, and flushed scarlet.