Clemence squeezed Grisell's hand with delight as she
recognised her own white rose, the finest of the garland.
Immediately after the car came Margaret's English attendants, the
stately, handsome Antony Wydville riding nearest to her, and then a
bevy of dames and damsels on horseback, but moving so slowly that
Grisell had full time to discover the silver herrings on the
caparisons of one of the palfreys, and then to raise her eyes to the
face of the tall stately lady whose long veil, flowing down from her
towered head-gear, by no means concealed a beautiful complexion and
fair perfect features, such as her own could never have rivalled even
if they had never been defaced. Her heart sank within her,
everything swam before her eyes, she scarcely saw the white doves let
loose from the triumphant arch beyond to greet the royal lady, and
was first roused by Ridley's exclamation as the knights with their
attendants began to pass.
"Ha! the lad kens me! 'Tis Harry Featherstone as I live."
Much more altered in these seven years than was Cuthbert Ridley,
there rode as a fully-equipped squire in the rear of a splendid
knight, Harry Featherstone, the survivor of the dismal Bridge of
Wakefield. He was lowering his lance in greeting, but there was no
knowing whether it was to Ridley or to Grisell, or whether he
recognised her, as she wore her veil far over her face.
This to Grisell closed the whole.
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