horror of what he was telling, and almost doubting the witness of his
own soul to the truth. One thing only he did not tell--he never spoke
of Beatrix, nor hinted that there had been any love in his life.

They turned, and turned again many times, and he was hardly aware that
at the end the Queen had linked one hand in his right arm and gently
pressed it from time to time in sign of sympathy. And when he had
finished, with a quaver in his deep voice as he told how he had come
out into the world to seek his fortune, she stopped him, and they both
stood still.

"Poor boy!" she exclaimed softly. "Poor Gilbert!"--and her tone
lingered on the name,--"the world owes you a desperate debt--but the
world shall pay it!"

She smiled as she spoke the last words, pressing his arm more suddenly
and quickly than before; and he smiled, too, but incredulously. Then
she looked down at her own hand upon his sleeve.

"But that is not all," she continued thoughtfully; "was there no
woman--no love--no one that was dearer than all you lost?"

A faint and almost boyish blush rose in Gilbert's cheek, and
disappeared again instantly.

"They took her from me, too," he said in a low, hard voice. "She was
Arnold de Curboil's daughter--when he married my mother he made his
child my sister. You know the Church's law!"

Eleanor was on the point of saying something impulsively, but her