She did not know why she suddenly looked up, every nerve strained to attention. No one was in sight, but from somewhere near at hand had come the sound of brushing against leaves. It was a tiny sound; a bird might have caused it, or some small animal, and yet she leaned forward, peering through the bushes with eyes that were narrowed and keen. Again came the sound, and she rose, noiseless, her skirts gathered up in one tense hand.
To the left was the castle, to the right the hedge that bordered the bowling-green. Straight ahead, at the far end of the lawn was the gap through which Simon had gone. It led along an alley between high hedges, to her own garden, the pleasaunce, away from the castle. On the other side of the hedge that ran parallel to the castle were fields, leading down to the moat. It was towards this hedge that she looked, and presently, where the leaves were sparse, saw a shadow, moving stealthily beside it, on the other side. It was but a fleeting glimpse that she had, but her nerves sprang to a conclusion. Quickly she pushed through the tangled bush, and stepped on to the green. One moment she stood there, staring intently to the right, and again heard the faint rustle. The leaves seemed to quiver in one spot, and grew still again.
Every pulse was throbbing in her body, but she forced herself to walk calmly forward, outwardly careless and aimless. The blood sang in her ears, for she knew that there was one, perhaps more, behind the hedge, watching her intently. On she went, heart beating loud and unevenly, but walking slowly, looking about her. It seemed to her that the bowling-green had become of a sudden a vast desert which she could never span, but at last she came to the end, pretended to hesitate a moment, and then went through the gap. The path twisted almost at once, and so soon as she had rounded the bend, she caught up her skirts and ran as if for dear life along the tortuous alley.
Simon was in the pleasaunce gazing abstractedly down upon the sundial that stood in the centre. All about him were little walks and flowerbeds, with snowdrops growing in them. The sound of light footsteps speeding towards him made him look up quickly, a hand to his sword-hilt. Into the pleasaunce came the Lady Margaret, panting for breath and running like one possessed. He started forward, brow lowering.
“What is it? Who hath dared—”
She almost fell into his arms, outstretched to receive her, clutching at his long tunic with desperate fingers.
“Come, come away—I implore thee! Give—give me—thine arm! Thy—thy—sword? Ah! Quickly, quickly! Away—from this—spot!”
Simon’s hands were on her shoulders, his voice rang harshly in her ears.
“Who hath dared to molest thee? Answer!”
“None—none!” She tugged wildly at his tunic. “It—it is not that! Oh, come, come! Every moment you stay—may mean—death!”
He stared at her in surprise, then cast a quick look around.
“Death? What mean ye, child?”
“Oh, tarry not!” she implored. “I—take me to the castle—I beg of you! I—oh, come, milor’! Come! Come! There is someone—lurking—behind the bushes! He—I saw him yonder, creeping in thy wake! Even now—he may be—upon us! For God’s sake come away!”
But Simon had his arms about her and his voice was strangely moved.
“And thou didst come to warn me, Margaret?”
In her frenzy she scarcely noticed his embrace, but beat her clenched fists against his breast.
“Oh, will you not come? Will you not come?”
“I fear no assassin that ever drew breath, child,” he said gently, “but I will come if you will it so.”
She drew a sobbing breath of relief, falling back.
“Then—then—walk on my right, milor’, and—and—walk swiftly!”
Even as she spoke he turned sharply round on his heel, staring into the bushes. Slowly he drew his sword, and went forward, panther-like. Margaret stayed by the sundial, trembling, but fearful of uttering a single cry lest it warn the prey he stalked of danger. She saw Simon leap forward, as if some spring within him had been loosed, and thrust with his sword through the hedge. A muffled shriek came, a scuffle and the sound of thudding footsteps, retreating in haste. Simon turned, wiped his sword upon the grass, and sheathed it. Then he came back to Margaret and stood before her.
“Was it only out of gratitude that thou didst come to warn me?” he asked.
She started. Gripping the edge of the sundial, and gazing up at him with wild, hungry eyes.
“Thine is a strange hatred,” Simon went on, and held out his hands. “Is it hate indeed?”
Her knees shook under her; her breath came fast and uneven.
“Ay—hate—hate—hate! Ah, what ails me? What have I done? What—what—I am mad! I—it was gratitude! I—I have not changed! I yield me—never!” She shrank away, warding him off. “Touch me not! I could not let him slay thee—thus! I—I could not, but—I—I think—I am—like to—swoon!”
He caught her even as she swayed, sweeping her off her feet. One instant she struggled, crying out, and then crumpled up in his arms, her head falling back lifeless.
Swiftly Simon bore her to the castle, brushing past staring lackeys, and striding to the stairs. He came to the Countess’s rooms, and there found Jeanne with Hélène.
“She hath swooned only,” he said in answer to the startled outcry. “It was her wound, belike.”
“Lay her down, lay her down!” Jeanne commanded, and spread cushions on the wooden settle.
Gently Simon laid his burden on them.
“She ran to warn me of danger from an assassin’s knife,” he said curtly. “She hath ta’en no hurt, nor I. Look to her, mademoiselle, and have a care.”
Jeanne smiled a little at that.
“Yes, milor’,” she said demurely, and with twinkling eyes watched him go out.
Sighing the Lady Margaret came
