Sir John's travelling companion, a small child in a cloak and hood, crept
closer to him in the darkness, nestled up against his elbow, and pushed her
little cold hand into his leathern glove.
"You are crying again, father," she said, full of pity. "You were crying
last night. Do you always cry when it grows dark?"
"It does not become a man to shed tears in the daylight, little maid," her
father answered gently.
"Is it for the poor King you are crying--the King those wicked men
murdered?"
"Ay, Angela, for the King; and for the Queen and her fatherless children
still more than for the King, for he has crowned himself with a crown of
glory, the diadem of martyrs, and is resting from labour and sorrow, to
rise victorious at the great day, when his enemies and his murderers shall
stand ashamed before him. I weep for that once so lovely lady--widowed,
discrowned, needy, desolate--a beggar in the land where her father was a
great king. A hard fate, Angela, father and husband both murdered."
"Was the Queen's father murdered too?" asked the silver-sweet voice out of
darkness, a pretty piping note like the song of a bird.
"Yes, love."
"Did Bradshaw murder him?"
"No, dearest, 'twas in France he was slain--in Paris; stabbed to death by a
madman.
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