"Nay;" said Elizabeth who had overheard her words. "The lad is well enough as he is. We warrant that he wished not to miss any of this pageant which hath been prepared in our honor. He shall attend us in our own chamber to which we and our ladies will now retire for some privacy. Come, my boy."

Much embarrassed Lady Stafford strove to stammer forth the truth but the queen waved her hand peremptorily.

"No more, madam. It is our wish that he attend us as he is. He shall don other garb later."

There was nothing left for Francis to do but to follow her as she retired with the ladies to the apartments which had been allotted to her use. For the first time the girl was painfully conscious of the incongruousness of her attire. That the queen might ask her attendance had not occurred to any of them, and had it done so the affair would have seemed easy of explanation, but it had been found exceedingly difficult to get a hearing. She resolved, however, that should occasion present she would tell all hoping that the queen would pardon the deception, if such it might be called.



For some time Elizabeth conversed with her maids, taking no notice of Francis, but at length she said abruptly,

"Come here, my lad."

Francis approached diffidently, and, unused to the customs of the court, remained standing.

"Kneel, boy," whispered one of the ladies whom she afterward learned was the Duchess of Rutland. "Where are thy manners?"

"Thy pardon," murmured Francis in consternation sinking upon one knee. "I knew not. I——"

"There! 'tis naught." Elizabeth extended her hand graciously, and the girl retained presence of mind enough to kiss it respectfully. "My good Rutland, expect not court manners in the midst of a forest. The youth means well enough, I dare say, and I liked well his words of welcome. 'Tis a pretty lad! His tresses match our own for brightness."

Francis looked up somewhat indignantly. Her locks were of red in truth, but they were glossy and lustrous becoming golden in the sun, while Elizabeth's were a dull red and false.

"Oh, no, Your Majesty;" interposed one of the ladies. "The lad's hair is well enough, but I should as soon think of likening a weed to a rose as of comparing such lack-lustre locks to your liege's."

"Foolish girl!" chided Elizabeth though a smile played about her lips for this great queen did not object to the most fulsome flattery. "To speak such words to me who am an old woman. Now the lad, we dare affirm, doth not think me so fair as his mother who is, in truth, a beautiful woman. Speak, boy!" She smiled at Francis as she spoke and rearranged her draperies coquettishly.

Francis' young nature was filled with scorn for the vanity of the woman before her, queen though she was. Her mother's face arose before her with its delicate complexion guiltless of the powder and the rouge affected by the ladies of the court. Her tresses were streaked somewhat with gray, but they were still her own. Her eyes were as blue as periwinkles and full of tenderness and love. The girl's eyes swept the painted face above her, and her heart grew hot within her breast at the queen's question. Amazed at her own audacity she arose and said boldly:

"Madam, I crave pardon, but my mother is to me the fairest woman in the world."

For an instant there was dead silence in the chamber. An expression of fury crossed the queen's face. She half rose from her couch, and then sank back upon it.

"We were near forgetting, Sir Malapert, that thou hadst not had benefit of court life. Thy manners must be mended ere thou dost come into our presence again. Go! you weary me. Come near me no more. And he is a pupil of Greville's!" Francis heard her exclaim as she hurried away. "My life, the boy is duller than he looks!"

Full of consternation at what she had done, angry and resentful also, Francis sought her parents to relate the incident to them.

"Oh, child, child," moaned the mother. "What hast thou done! What hast thou done!"

"My mother, was it not the truth? Thou art fairer; a thousand times fairer than she. She is an ugly old woman——"

"My daughter," interrupted Lord Stafford, "say no more. Elizabeth is the queen, and whatever may be her weaknesses and faults she is still the queen. And mark you, child! though she hath many faults she hath also great virtues. For this reason her people overlook her vanity and exalt her. She is a queen, but she is also a woman. Thou art too young to understand all that that means yet. Now, let me think how to make amends."

"She said that I was to come near her no more while she remained. I am sorry if I did wrong in speaking so, but still it is the truth. My mother is the fairer."

"Hush, hush," whispered the lady drawing her close. "'Tis treason, child. What doth it matter to us whether or no I am the fairer. It bodes us ill to say so. Oh, child, I am afeared."

"Let us ask Greville to aid us," said Lord Stafford. "Mayhap he can suggest a remedy, for well doth he ken Elizabeth's humors."



CHAPTER XI

AT THE QUEEN'S COMMAND

But neither Greville's obsequious homage, nor Lord and Lady Stafford's apologies could regain the goodwill of the queen. Seeing her state of mind Lord Stafford advised that Francis should retain her chamber during the rest of Elizabeth's visit.

For the three days that the queen remained at the Hall her demeanor was such as to fill its master with a vague uneasiness. Lady Stafford she hardly tolerated, and though Lord Stafford lavished gifts upon her, yet she refused to be propitiated.

"Surely," Francis heard her father say to her mother, "the remark of a child would not suffice for such behavior? Elizabeth is vain beyond most women, yet 'twere doing her an injustice to deem her capable of resentment for so slight a thing. Can she have learned of Ballard's presence in England? Of our visit to Chartley? And yet none save we three knew whither we went. And you would be discreet, I trow. Francis, young as she is, would reveal naught that would do me harm. She is too straightforward, too truthful,"—he stopped with a light laugh and kissed his wife. "What spirit the girl had to tell the queen that thou wert fairer," he said. "Thou art so in truth, Penelope, yet for my life I durst not tell it to Elizabeth."

"Nay; I would not have thee to, my lord. Say that Elizabeth is the loveliest, the fairest of womankind, I care not so that I may keep thee with me. But our child, my lord! I fear for that very directness which thou dost commend. A weaker spirit would be more politic. I would not that she be less truthful, but I wish, I wish——"

"Nay, sweetheart, wish not that she be other than she is. I would not have her fawning upon the queen as do the maids of the court. Dost mark what words of flattery they utter and yet with what ridicule they speak of her to each other when they think that there is none to hear? I would not that Francis should be as they are."

"Nor I," acquiesced the mother. "Yet sometimes truth doth not meet with the merit it deserves."

"True; but let us think not on that, but be grateful that our child is as she is."

Francis' heart glowed with love and tenderness toward her parents, and she was grieved that words of hers had brought such disquiet upon them.

"I must try," she mused, "to retain my truth and yet not offend by it. But how could I have said other than I did? My mother is fairer to me. There was but the one answer to be given to such a question."

Over and over she turned the matter in her mind striving to reconcile policy with truthfulness. A problem which has vexed the souls of men since the beginning of time.

At last the queen took her departure. As she bade her host and hostess farewell, she said:

"Madam, I thank you for your entertainment. My lord, though thou bearest me no good will, yet shalt thou find that Elizabeth doth not forget that thy father was the friend of her father. 'Tis pity that more attention hath not been given to thy son's manners, but the fault shall be amended, I promise you. England surely hath schools for its youth that are equal to those of thy faith abroad."

"Madam, what mean you?" asked the nobleman detecting the menace in her words.

"We shall see what we shall see," was the queen's enigmatical rejoinder. She swept to her chariot, and with her brilliant train, soon left Stafford Hall behind.

As the days glided by, and no sign or message came from her, the anxiety engendered by her last words faded away, and once more a feeling of security crept into their hearts. This false confidence was dispelled however one warm day in July when a messenger from the queen rode into the courtyard, and demanded an audience with the master of the Hall. The guest had been but a short time in the presence chamber when Lord Stafford emerged from the apartment with pale face.

"Bid my lady and my daughter repair hither without delay," he cried hailing a servitor.

"But, my lord," Francis heard him say as they hastened to the room in answer to the summons, "I do but speak the truth when I declare that, as I live by bread, I have no son. I have but one child, and that a daughter. She is here to speak for herself."

"What is it, father?" asked Francis going to him, while Lord Shrope, the queen's messenger, looked his bewilderment.

"The queen hath commanded that my son, Francis Stafford, shall accompany my Lord Shrope to the court to become one of her pensioners. He doubts my word when I say that I have no son."

"Nay, my lord; I must believe you if you say that you have none," said the nobleman courteously. "But there is misapprehension somewhere. If I do not misreckon foully the queen spoke of both seeing and speaking with him during her progress hither. There is grave misunderstanding, I fear."

"Alas! my lord, this comes of deception," Lord Stafford despairing cried. "Let me unfold to thee all that chanced during Her Majesty's stay, and do you advise me what course to pursue for I am nigh bereft of wit."

"Let me hear all, Stafford," returned the other. "Thou knowest that I bear a heart well disposed toward thee, and will gladly do aught that will aid thee. Full well do I remember how thou and I did consort together at the court, and there hath been none to take thy place since thou didst go into retirement upon thy marriage. Therefore, say on."

"I thank thee that thou hast spoken so favorably and kindly of the friendship that once held between us," replied Lord Stafford. "Albeit, I would not curry favor with thee because of it. But to the matter in hand. Know then that when the Queen's Majesty was about to come hither, and we were preparing for her reception, Hugh Greville, my daughter's tutor and my kinsman, did lament that I had no son to speak the welcome to Elizabeth. In an idle moment, I unwittingly consented that Francis should don the habit of a page and deliver the speech not thinking that the queen would do more than to listen to it. But she was drawn to the girl and spoke words of approbation to her, enquiring her name. 'Francis,' she observed as the child gave it her, 'ah! well do I ken, my lord, that that was your father's name.' Then as she moved on she asked if I had other children. To which I answered, 'No.' Methought that that would end the matter, but mark you! She bade my supposed son to attend her in her chamber; and then, thou knowest the tenor of the court talk, she asked if she did not deem her mother fairer than she, the queen, was. My daughter, Shrope, knows naught but to speak the truth. She is a maiden of tender years, simply brought up, and as wild and free as the linnet that sings upon yon bough. She spoke the truth when she answered that to her, her mother was the fairest woman that lived. Elizabeth spurned her from her presence, and conveyed threat as to the manners of my son when she left the hall. 'Ods life, my lord! to what pass hath England come when children must be taught to dissemble and fawn else they be subjected to discipline by the queen? Had she not enough courtiers to hail her as 'Diana,' and 'The Miracle of Time,' and other things of like ilk that she must needs try to subvert my child from truth? Gramercy! I am ready at this moment to enter the tilt-yard to defend the girl's saying against all comers. Her mother is the fairest lady that ere the sun shone on. I——"

"Hold, Stafford, thou ravest! Be not so heated in thy words. Give pause while I think on what thou hast told me."

Lord Stafford tried to subdue his feelings while the other sat in thought. Presently Lord Shrope looked up.

"Stafford, for the sake of that old friendship to which I have before referred, bear with me for what I am about to say. Rumor hath whispered that thou hast given entertainment to Jesuits which, as thou knowest, is felony. Nay;" as Lord Stafford was about to speak, "I would not ask thee if it be true or no. But for that cause do I say, let the girl assume once more her male attire and go with me to the court. Elizabeth likes not to be made the victim of a hoax, but there are times when none enjoys a jest more than she. When the time is propitious, I and other of thy friends, will disclose the matter to the queen. Believe me when I say that it will be best so."

"Let Francis go from me to that court?" cried the father in agonized tones. "I cannot! I will not! She shall not stir from here! I will go to the queen and lay the whole affair before her."

"Do not so, my lord. There are those who have the queen's ear who have whispered against thee. Stafford Hall hath broad lands in its demesne, and covetous eyes have been cast upon it. 'Twould be a choice morsel for some favorite. 'Twould not be wise for thee to appear at court just now."

"Father," said Francis, "why should I not do as thy friend advises? I would not that aught of harm should come to thee, and surely none can come to me? Let me go. It will be but a short time until my return, because I feel certain that when the queen learns that there was naught of intent to deceive she will pardon all. Once, my father, thou didst say that she was a queen but still a woman. A woman, my father, with a woman's heart and a woman's compassion."

"A woman, yes; with a woman's vanity, and a woman's spite," broke from Lord Stafford.

"Stafford, Stafford, it is well for thee that none other hears thee. Thy daughter hath well said that Elizabeth is a woman. Lion-hearted as well becomes a Tudor, but properly appealed to, sympathetic and generous. Be guided in this by me, my lord, and let her go."

"Yes, my father," pleaded Francis.

"It shall be as her mother says," said Lord Stafford turning to his wife who had stood as if stricken since hearing the advice of Lord Shrope. "Speak, my wife. Shall we keep our daughter, and defy Elizabeth——"

"Oh, no, no!" sobbed Lady Stafford. "I am loath to let her go, and yet I would not have her stay if by so doing we shall seem to defy the queen. My lord, surely harm could not come to the child, while for thee, I fear, I fear."

"Then I may go." Francis sprang to her mother and embraced her. "Oh, 'tis only for my father that we need to fear. Naught of harm will I come to."

"Upon mine honor, Stafford," said Lord Shrope going to Lord Stafford who had bowed his head upon his hands, "even as I have two lady birds of daughters of mine own, so will I look after thine. Take heart, old friend. I believe that all will be well else I would not advise this step. Courage!"



CHAPTER XII

THE FAVOR OF PRINCES

The Bow bells were ringing as Francis and her escort, Lord Shrope, drew near the city of London three days later. It was sunset and the silvery peal of the bells was clearly borne to them upon the evening breeze. Merrily they rang. Now wild and free; now loud and deep; now slower and more slow until they seemed to knell the requiem of the day.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed Francis involuntarily drawing rein. "Pause, I pray you, my lord. Do they always ring so?"

"Ay, child. Ever since and long before they sounded so musically in Dick Whittington's ears: 'Turn again, turn again, thrice lord mayor of London'! What think you they say? Do they bear a message to your ears?"

The girl listened intently.

"Methinks they say, 'Come not to London, Francis! Come not to London town!' But is there not in truth amidst all their toning some melody or chant?"

"There is, child, but not as thou hast so fancifully thought a warning to thee. How melodious is their chime! Think the rather on that than on aught else."

"Yes, my lord; and how wonderful is the city! Marry! whatever betides I shall have seen London!"

She sat erect as she spoke, and drank in the scene with appreciative eyes. Lord Shrope looked at Britain's metropolis with pride.

The last rays of the setting sun fell lingeringly upon the great city. For great it was though it numbered but one and thirty thousand inhabitants at this time. Paris alone excelled it in numbers. London, as the representative of England in her supremacy of the seas, her intellectual grandeur, and above all as the friend of those who dared to oppose the power of Rome, London stood in the eyes of all men as the greatest city of the world.

The towers and turrets that gleamed above the strong walls that encircled the city; the sure gates that gave entrance thereto; the princely palaces with their large gardens, rich porches and stately galleries; the open fields that came up close to the walls; the distant hills of Essex, Middlesex, Surrey and Kent covered thickly with woods; the silvery Thames, the silent highway of the Londoners, its bosom covered by a forest of masts and spanned by the great bridge,—even then old,—with its gateways, towers, drawbridges, houses, mills, chapel and wharfs; all these went to make a picture that thrilled every English heart.

The girl looked first this way and then that as though she could never drink her fill.

"My lord," she cried, "prithee tell me which of all those turrets is the Tower?"

"To the east, child. The white tower that rises so majestically from the surrounding turrets. Therein is written the whole history of England. That is the lofty citadel which it is said the great Julius himself raised. And yonder lies Saint Paul's. That sombre and dungeon like stronghold is Baynard's castle. To our left is Westminster, and yon beautiful palace is Whitehall. It is known of all men how it reverted to the crown at the fall of Wolsey. The queen's father adorned it in its present manner. There stands Somerset house, and yonder is Crosby. On the bankside in Southwark are the theatres and Paris gardens where are the bear pits. Look about thee, Francis. On every building, almost on every stone is writ the history of our forbears. On all those walls are traces of Roman, Briton, Anglo-Saxon and Norman. History in stone. What sermons they might preach to us had they but tongues!"

"It is beautiful!" said Francis again.

"The bells have ceased their chiming," said Lord Shrope. "I would not break into thy enjoyment, child, but we must hasten. Before the darkness falls we must enter Greenwich where Elizabeth is."

With a deep drawn sigh, Francis gave one more look about her and then they passed into the city.

Within the immediate vicinity of the walls there were many gardens and open spaces. The houses with their fanciful gables and vanes, and tall twisted chimneys invited and enchained the eye. The streets were narrow, and alleys, courts and by-paths abounded in every direction. While they were at a distance they had heard only the subdued noises of the city, above which the bells sounded clearly. But now as they passed through the streets their ears were assailed by the cries of the pent-house keepers, or the noises of the apprentices as they set upon some offending pedestrian. The din was almost indescribable. And yet in the midst of the confusion there was music. From every barber shop came the twang of cittern or guitar, while song burst from the lips of every tankard bearer.

All these, with other wonders, Francis encountered as they wended their way through alleys and byways until presently they came to London Stone.

"Now here will I dismount," cried Francis pleased and excited by all that she had seen and heard.

"But why, child? We have not yet reached the wharf where we take the wherry for Greenwich. Why should you pause here?"

"Because," cried the girl with a laugh, "if I cannot take possession of the city, I can at least emulate that arch traitor, Jack Cade, and strike my staff upon this stone." So saying she struck the ancient stone a sharp blow with her whip.

"Beshrew me, girl!" cried the nobleman laughing, "thou shouldst in very truth have been a boy! Marry! who but a lad would have thought on such a thing! But hasten! The last rays of yon setting sun must see us at the palace."

Francis remounted her palfrey, and without further incident they came to the wharf. Leaving their horses in the charge of some of the servitors of Lord Shrope they descended the stairs that led through one of the numerous water gates to the river, and entered one of the wherries that lay clustered about waiting for fares.

"See the barges," cried the girl as they shot London Bridge and passed down the river. "How many there are!"

The bosom of the river was covered over with barges, wherries and vessels of every description. Busy as it was fleets of swans were sailing upon its smooth surface, the noise of their gabble mingling agreeably with the song of the watermen.

"Yes, many;" assented Lord Shrope in answer to the girl's remark, as retinues of barges passed them, filled with many a freight of brave men and beautiful women. "Hearken, how the oarsmen keep time to their oars."

Francis listened with delight as the song of the wherrymen swelled in a mighty chorus, for every boatman sang the same thing:

"Heave ho! rumbelow!"

"And the swans," she cried excitedly.

"Yes; 'tis a pleasant sight, and many have wondered that they should stay upon the river when it is so busy, but they are kindly treated and no harm suffered to come to them. Behold the dwellings of the nobles."

Nothing could have been more picturesque at this time than the north bank of the Thames with its broad gardens, lofty trees and embattled turrets and pinnacles of the palaces, each of which had its landing-place and private retinue of barges and wherries.

"This is the Tower," said the nobleman as they drew near that grim fortress. A low browed projecting arch, above which was a tower forming a striking part of the stronghold, attracted the girl's attention. Steps led up from the river to a small ricket in the arch which gave entrance into the Tower.

"That is the Traitors' Gate," said Lord Shrope. "Through that wicket pass all those guilty of treason."

A shudder passed over Francis as she gazed at the forbidding portals.

"Why dost thou shiver?" asked Lord Shrope kindly, as he noticed her involuntary tremor.

"Sir," answered Francis, in mournful tones, "I fear that Tower. Something seems to whisper me that yon grim walls and I will become better acquainted."

"Now Heaven forfend!" ejaculated Lord Shrope. "Thy doubts of thy reception at the queen's hands render thee fearful. Take courage, child. All will yet be well. 'Tis not amiss that thou shouldst be doubtful, as the issue is uncertain. Were you but as the queen thinks, and not in masquerade, you would fare well at court. For 'tis worthy the ambition of any young man, be his rank of the highest, or his prospects the most brilliant, to become one of the queen's pensioners. For thus doth Her Majesty accomplish divers things: she honoreth those who are such; obligeth their kindred and alliance, and fortifieth herself; for none can be brought near her person without becoming willing to lay down life itself in her behalf."

"I should not be, were I in truth the boy she thinks me," declared Francis.

"Subdue such spirit, girl," rebuked he. "The queen is graciousness itself to those whom she favors, but frowardness and pertness are not to her liking. In sooth, she tolerates them not in those near her. For thy father's sake, have a care to thy words. The slight disfavor under which thou dost labor will soon be overcome, I doubt not, if thou wilt show thyself submissive to her will. But I mean not to chide thee, child, for I know that thy maiden heart cannot but fail thee in this hour. I would, an I could, turn thy mind to more of liking toward the queen else will it be hard for thee to sue to her. Elizabeth is a great ruler. The land hath never before enjoyed so much of peace and prosperity. Even her enemies cannot gainsay this fact. But I fear that I weary thee, and thou art troubled enough."

"Nay, my lord; I know that thou dost speak from the fulness of experience, and therefore do thy words carry weight. I am not weary but my heart doth fail me when I think of the queen and the court. I am but a maiden, my lord, unlearned in the ways of courtiers, and should I fail to find favor with the queen, who shall stand between me and her will? Who is there who would brave her displeasure to speak one word for me? Marry! not one!"

"Think not on that aspect, girl, an thou wouldst maintain thy spirit. He who would achieve his end dwells not on failure. Think on thy father. For his sake thou must get the favor of the queen. For his sake so demean thyself that all that he hath done will be condoned. Mark thee, Francis! There are those who whisper that he is the more inclined to Mary of Scotland than to Elizabeth of England. There lies his danger."

"I thank you, my lord, for your words," said Francis. "Well will I heed them. Thou hast been to me as a father in the discharge of thy duty, though it must be irksome to thee to be burdened with so troublesome a charge. Nathless, I thank thee for thy words and for thy care."

Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke and she turned her head quickly that he might not see them.

"Thou art welcome to all that I have done," said Lord Shrope brusquely to hide his feelings for he was filled with pity for the forlorn state of the girl. "Troublesome thou hast not been, but full of courage until now. How now? Wilt thou play the girl when thou dost wear that garb? Command thyself, I pray, for we draw near the palace."

"'Tis true I wear this garb," sobbed Francis, "but yet I am a maiden, with a maiden's fears and a maiden's weakness. Prithee bear with me for a moment until I am myself again."

She gave way to the emotion that overwhelmed her, for she was wearied by the journey, excited over the new and strange scenes of the past few days, and overwrought with her fears. Lord Shrope bent a look of compassion upon her, but uttered no word.

The song of the boatmen ceased as they drew near the landing stairs of the palace. There were numerous wherries waiting to unload their human freight, and this gave Francis time to recover her composure. So soon as she was calm Lord Shrope motioned to the watermen and they drew up at the stairs which led to the great gate of the palace. Courtyard and terrace were filled with gaily-dressed ladies and nobles. Here a lady attended by her gentlewomen traced her way delicately, a gentleman-usher making way for her, her train upheld by a page. Then gallants ruffled along, their attire vying with that of the ladies for brilliancy and richness. Each courtier wore a rose behind his ear, and upon his shoes were roses also to hide the strings. Each bore a long sword upon one side and a poniard on the other, and behind him a body of serving men, proportioned to his estate and quality, all of whom walked with the air of military retainers and were armed with swords and bucklers. Laughing, jesting and making merry, they seemed not to have a care, though many a satin doublet and silken vest concealed a heart as full of anxiety as that of the girl who had just come among them.

"Beshrew me, my lord," exclaimed a noble in brave attire as Lord Shrope entered the palace yard with his charge. "Art thou come again? Methought I heard that wast sent to France."

"And France is (Francis) here," retorted his lordship, indicating his companion.

"Good! I' faith, very good, if Francis be his name," laughed the other. "A proper lad, I trow. The queen hath ever an eye for beauty."

"Where is Her Grace?" questioned Lord Shrope.

"In the presence chamber," was the reply.

"Then let us hie thither," spoke my lord, and Francis hurried after him, confused and embarrassed, as she encountered the curious gaze of the courtiers and ladies. They passed through the lofty halls and ante-chambers of the palace until at length they stood in the long gallery at the upper end of which were the folding doors that gave entrance to the presence chamber.

"Go not in, my lord," pleaded the usher of the black rod in charge of the door. "Something hath gone amiss with Her Highness, and the moment is not favorable."

"I thank you, Master Usher, but the queen bade me seek her instantly upon my return," said Lord Shrope. "I needs must go to her now. Come, Francis."

So saying he boldly entered the chamber. It was hung with magnificent tapestries toward which Francis cast not so much as a single glance, so intent was she upon the form which seemed to dominate the room. At one end of the apartment was a dais upon which the queen sat under a royal canopy, surrounded by her ministers and some courtiers. They stood about with dismayed countenances for the queen was in a rage. She looked up as the two entered, and stared for a moment as if seeking to know the meaning of their entrance.

"My liege sovereign," cried Lord Shrope without waiting for the Lord Chamberlain to announce him, "I have come. Behold here is the lad for whom you sent me."

"Out of my sight," cried the queen angrily. "'Ods death! is there none to keep the door that every minion that lists may enter? Out of my sight, and plague me not with a sight of that boy. Away, varlet!"

With crestfallen visage Lord Shrope arose, bowed profoundly and hurried Francis out of the chamber.

"I should have heeded thy warning, sir," he said to the usher. "Now I cannot seek the queen until she bids me to her."

"What shall I do?" asked the girl almost in tears. "Whither shall I go?"

"Thou shalt come with me, my child. My lady wife will look to thy comfort. There shalt thou abide until it shall be safe to approach Elizabeth. Thy star is not in the ascendant."

"And I have involved thee too in Her Grace's displeasure," said Francis with contrition.

"Nay; Elizabeth is too just to harbor ill toward me who hath but wrought her pleasure. Though verily the humors of princes like their favors are uncertain. But come!"



CHAPTER XIII

A FAMILIAR FACE AND A CHALLENGE

Lady Shrope received the girl with kindness but her anxiety, when her husband recounted the manner of his reception by the queen, was great.

"Thou hast no cause for fear," remarked Lord Shrope. "Elizabeth is the very muster of justice and honor. When she hath suffered a few hours to pass she will repent her of her injustice."

The nobleman was right. At an early hour the next day he was summoned to the presence of the queen, and bade to bring his charge with him.

"I cry your pardon, my lord," said Elizabeth extending her hand to him graciously. "Thine entrance yester e'en was ill-timed. We had received tidings that ruffled our royal dignity and permitted us to treat thee with undue rigor. Dost forgive thy queen, my lord?"

"There is naught I would not forgive Elizabeth," returned he with earnestness. "Had I known I would have delayed seeking an audience but methought it was your wish that I should come to you upon my first arrival. Forgive me that I did misinterpret your desire."

"If thou hast forgiven me then do I forgive thee," said the queen. "Rise, my lord, and I will speak of this boy, and then to other matters. Business of state awaits the morning hours."

"He is here, my liege, to speak for himself," answered he, and beckoned Francis to come forward.

She did so diffidently and kneeled before the queen.

"Nay; I wish not to speak with him, my lord," and Francis noted with dismay that she did not extend her hand to her. "Let him take his place with the pages. They will soon let him into the manners of the court, I trow. When he shall have rubbed off some of the rustic mayhap I will have something to say to him."

"My liege," ventured the nobleman, "will you listen to something concerning the lad which 'tis best that you should know?"

"Now, by my faith, my lord! thou dost try our patience," said Elizabeth sharply. "Said we not that affairs of state awaited us. We go at once to the council chamber. My lord chamberlain," turning to that official whose white staff indicated his office, "place this lad where his manners will meet with the most improvement."

She swept out of the room followed by her ministers, while the courtiers and ladies dispersed according to their fancy.

Francis had remained in a kneeling posture all this time scarcely able to control her tears. A tap on the shoulder aroused her, and looking up she saw the kindly face of Lord Hunsdon, the lord chamberlain, bending over her.

"Be not disheartened, boy," he said compassionately. "The tide will turn, and thou wilt soon be swept upon the flood into the sunshine of Her Majesty's regard. Come, and I will show thee those who are to be thy fellow companions."

"My lord chamberlain," said Lord Shrope hurriedly, "out of the goodness of your heart, permit me one word. The lad is unacquainted with the court, and unused to the society of pages whom as thou knowest, albeit their outward 'havior conforms to custom, yet still are ofttimes unmannerly in their demeanor to each other. For that reason, and for the love which once I did bear his father, I entreat you, let the lad remain with me. I will see to't that his deportment is all that could be asked."

"My lord, I dare not," was the chamberlain's reply. "Thou knowest that where the queen commands she exacts obedience to her behests. He must go with the pages."

"My lord, a word in your ear. The lad is not as he seems." And Lord Shrope rapidly explained the matter.

"Ha! sayst thou so?" explained Lord Hunsdon regarding Francis earnestly. "By my halidom, my lord, there is none who would take her to be other than she appears. Somewhat delicate looking, forsooth, but there are many lads as maiden-like. If the matter be given to the queen in proper manner she will regard it with lenient eyes, but if not, she may treat it as deceit practised upon herself. That she would not forgive."

"True;" assented Lord Shrope. "'Tis that aspect of the affair that troubles me. Thou seest that for this cause I would that the girl might remain with my lady wife."

"It may not be," said the chamberlain. "Let the girl be in attendance with the pages in accordance with the queen's command until she learns of the child's sex, which, for the damsel's sake, I would discover soon."

"I thank you, my lord, for your kindness," returned Lord Shrope. "It is my desire also that the queen should learn of the affair at an early season. But the time must be propitious."

"Yes; the time must be propitious." The lord chamberlain turned to Francis who had listened to the above conversation with blushing cheeks. "It seems best, my child, to carry out the queen's command at least in part. Canst thou so bear thyself that none will be the wiser of thy sex? The discipline of the palace is strict and the pages observe punctiliously the outward forms of respect. Still the minions do ofttimes o'erstep the bounds and indulge in rare pranks. Methinks 'twould be wise for them to know naught of thy disguise. The knaves are as full of mischief as sprites."

"I fear them not," said Francis spiritedly. "I fear naught but the queen's displeasure. For any other, I care not who he be, woe to him who dares touch Francis Stafford." She touched the poniard that dangled from her belt significantly as she spoke.

"Child," cried the old lord in delight, "thou wearest the proper garb. Thou wast never meant for a girl. Zounds! what spirit! And so thou fearest naught in all England but the displeasure of the queen. Gramercy! the air of the court is beginning to tell upon thee for those are the words of a courtier. Come! I no longer fear for thee so long as thou dost continue to bear thyself in so fearless a manner."

"I bid you farewell, my lord," said Francis to Lord Shrope.

"Farewell for a season, my child. Return to my lady when thy duties are ended," said her friend. "Lighter will my heart be when thou art once more in thy father's house. Marry! I would that I had not advised bringing thee thither. Now I know not what may befall."

"Chide not thyself, my lord," returned Francis who had recovered her natural courage now that the interview with the queen was over. "All will be well in a few days, I doubt not. Meantime, it suits me well that I am to see somewhat of the court."

"Marry! it suits not me," returned his lordship bluntly. "I like not to see a wild bird caged. The linnet is never so sweet as in its own woodland."

"But the hawk flies as high for its keeper as when seeking its own quarry," said Francis as she moved away. "Again, my lord, farewell until the eventide."

"Farewell. Be discreet, child."

Francis followed Lord Hunsdon through several lofty halls and chambers. Finally the official caught sight of a youth who stood idly by a pillar.

"Devereaux," he called. "I would speak with thee."

"I am here, my lord." The boy was at his side instantly. "Command me, I pray you. How can I serve you?"

"Take this lad, and make him thy pupil, Edward. He hath been sent here to be taught manners. There be none so well versed in such things as thou art. Therefore do I give him into thy charge."

The youth raised his head and gave a keen searching glance at Francis. The recognition was instantaneous. Francis gave a slight exclamation for the boy was he with whom she had contested the slaying of the deer. Beyond a slight sparkle of his eye the lad betrayed no sign of ever having seen her before.

"And, Edward, I know the custom that prevails amongst the pages of treating with undue harshness such as come among ye for the first time. I charge you, as you wish to curry favor with me, that this lad shall meet with naught but gentleness. Dost hear, Edward?"

"Ay, my lord. It shall be as thou sayst. He shall be treated with gentleness. With exceeding great gentleness, I promise you."

The boy's manner was very deferential, but the ears of Francis caught the sinister meaning that lurked beneath his words.

"My lord," she said boldly, "is there none other to whom I may be consigned except this youth? I like not his appearance."

"Like not Edward?" exclaimed Lord Hunsdon in surprise. "Why, what caprice is this? He is a proper lad, and there is no other of the pages so trustworthy. Thou shouldst deem thyself fortunate to be put into his hands."

"Marry, sir," remarked Edward Devereaux with a sorrowful air, "'tis pity that my visage is so unattractive. If the boy is afeared," with a slight emphasis on the word, "you would best place him with another. Fear makes cowards of us all, and breeds distrust of the most worthy."

"Gramercy," cried the girl hotly, "dost thou think that I fear thee, sirrah? Nay; my lord, I will take none other for my mentor than he. Mayhap while he imparts to me the nice customs of the court, he will in turn learn of me something he wots not of. Marry! we each have much to learn."

"Tut! is this the way to begin?" said his lordship impatiently. "Edward, I shall look to thee for a good report of thy charge."

"It shall be well, sir," returned Edward Devereaux bowing profoundly. The chamberlain left the two, and the boy faced the girl. "So," he said, "we are come to learn manners, are we? By my faith, 'tis time. Thou dost discover too much heat, Master Stafford, and that, thou shouldst know, is not permitted at court. Take that for thy first lesson."

"I will take naught for my lesson from thee," said Francis quickly. "Who art thou to teach manners to me?"

"Hast never heard of Edward Devereaux?" queried the lad. "Much hast thou missed for he is before you," and he bowed mockingly. "Know, Francis Stafford, that thou and I have a feud of long standing. Hast heard thy father speak of Sir Thomas Devereaux of Kent? I am his son, cousin german to Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex. Surely, even if thou dost reside far from the court, thou dost know that there hath always been enmity between the Devereaux and the Staffords?"

"Ay! I know of it," assented Francis. "And that is why thou didst claim, the deer which was slain by my hand in the park?"

"So thou dost still claim the deer? Mark you, Francis Stafford! We of the court think it not honorable to claim that which doth not belong to us. Thou hadst no shadow of hand in the deed. It lies between thy sister and me. Yet still thou sayst,—'I slew it.' Hark ye! if ye so choose we can settle the matter in the great park some eventide. But for the sake of truth say no more that you slew it. It is between thy sister and myself."

"My sister," murmured Francis, and then remembering herself: "My sister be it."

"And thou and I will meet and decide the business once for all," went on Devereaux. "Come! what say you to the third night from this? There are duties that forbid the undertaking sooner."

"But, but," stammered Francis. "I——"

"Ah! thou dost fear." Edward Devereaux looked his scorn. "We will drop the matter. But thou must fight, or concede that I slew the deer."

"I fear nothing," cried the girl. "I will meet thee when and where thou wilt."

"Then on the third night from this, thou and I will meet in the park close by the wicket of the western gate. I will show thee this day where it lieth. And now we must to duty."



CHAPTER XIV

A STRANGE DUEL

Now, Francis Stafford knew but little of the noble art of fencing. Once or twice her father had given her the foils and shown her some of the attitudes and thrusts, but beyond that her knowledge did not extend. It was with considerable trepidation, therefore, that she thought of the approaching combat.

"Marry!" she mused. "Were it not that Master Devereaux would impute it to fear I would not engage in such contest. It is not befitting my maiden dignity, and I know my mother would not approve. Yet there have been maiden warriors, why should there not be maiden duelists. I doubt not, were the truth known, that there have been many. But howsoe'er that may be, my father, I know, would not like me to submit to the implication of fear; albeit I would not harm the lad even though he be the son of my father's enemy."

Through the watches of the night the question of swordsmanship troubled her, and when the morning came she had reached no solution of the difficulty.

"I dare not appeal to any who know my sex," she thought as she took her place among the pages that swarmed one of the ante-chambers. "I would that I knew of one that would teach me to thrust and to parry."

While she was thus musing a courtier approached her. He was gorgeously arrayed. Jewels to a fabulous amount adorned his person. Even upon his pantoufles or shoes were large pearls instead of the roses beloved of the gallants. His beard was pointed, his eyes set close together; his manner, when he chose, was irresistible, and his smile very winning. There was a pipe of the new found tobacco in his mouth,—a weed that had just been imported from the new world.

"My fair lad," said the courtier removing his pipe, and speaking in the broad soft accent of Devonshire, "I have not marked thy face before. Art new to the court?"

"Yes, my lord," answered Francis noting with delight the accent. "I am Francis Stafford from Hampshire, but newly arrived at the court. But thou, thou art from Devon, I am sure. It is my mother's native heath."

"True, boy; I am from Devon. Sayst thou that thy mother is from that shire? Then thou and I should be good friends. Bethink you! Could you play Hermes for me to one of the maids of honor?"

"I could, my lord. But prithee tell me whom I serve?" and the girl looked eagerly into his face.

"I am Walter Raleigh," answered he. "This weed hath given me somewhat of fame."

"Nay;" said Francis quickly. "Not the weed but thine own achievements."

"By my faith, thou art as silvery tongued as Orpheus with his lute," said Sir Walter with a smile. "Mark me, boy! I would not that any should know of this message, least of all the queen. 'Tis not that there is aught of harm in it, lad. As thou art new to the court thou mayest not know that it is not permitted to any to deem any fair save the queen, and so we are sometimes forced to send tokens sub rosa."

"I know, Sir Walter," said Francis sadly. "'Tis for that very self-same cause that I am here."

"Then, lad, we understand each other. Know you Mistress Elizabeth Throckmorton, one of the queen's maids?"

"Nay; 'tis but my second day in the palace," replied Francis.

"Then must I show her to thee," said Sir Walter. "As Her Majesty goes to take the air upon the river to-day I will linger a little behind. When the maids of honor come forth, mark well my action. As they pass I will drop my glove at the feet of her who is Elizabeth Throckmorton."

"I will note thy action, Sir Walter, and give to the lady thy token in such manner that none save the fair one herself shall be the wiser."

"Good, my lad! Thou art a true Hermes. As gracious in thy service as was ever that messenger of the gods. Thou wilt make me thy debtor a thousandfold. What guerdon dost thou wish?"

"Nay, Sir Walter; I want nothing. 'Tis pleasing to me to be of service to thee."

"Why, boy, 'tis the custom of the court to take all that one can get," cried Sir Walter who was noted for that very thing. "Hast thou no favor to ask? No desire of thine inmost heart?"

"Oh," cried the girl as a thought darted into her mind, looking at him timidly, "if I might be beholden to you for one favor. If thou wouldst, Sir Walter——" she paused.

"Speak on, lad," said Raleigh kindly. "Thou are not the first to prefer request for service. In truth thou wouldst be a rara avis shouldst thou not demand something. There lives no man, nor woman, nor child at the court who hath not his own end to further. Therefore speak and say what I shall give thee."

"Sir Walter," said Francis emboldened by his words, "thou art a great swordsman and noted for thy skill in the use of that weapon. Impart to me that knowledge, I beseech you."

"Is that thy wish?" cried Sir Walter in amazement. "Right willingly will I teach thee, for I perceive that thou art a lad of parts. 'Tis an art that is more excellent than any other military exercise, because there is very great and general use thereof. Not only in general wars, but also in particular combats. Seek me anon, and I will soon make thee a master of the sword."

With a dazzling smile he left her. Francis repaired to the courtyard to await the coming of the queen and her maidens.

The royal barge, manned by watermen attired in regal liveries, lay at the foot of the great stairs which ascended from the river. The yeomen of the guard in scarlet jerkins with halberds in their hands, guarded the passage from the palace to the waterside. Presently the ushers issued from the mansion, flanked by a band of gentlemen pensioners. After this, amidst a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, came Elizabeth herself.

Sir Walter Raleigh walked by the queen, but, as if pushed back from his position by the press of people who crowded to see her, he dropped slightly to the rear. As the ladies went gaily by, laughing and talking, he let fall his gauntlet just in front of a beautiful girl. Recovering the glove as Elizabeth looked about inquiringly for him he resumed his place by her side. He was in high favor at this time, and consequently obliged to be in constant attendance upon her.

Francis looked attentively at the lady so indicated and followed the maids as unobtrusively as possible to the boats. The young ladies of honor were to be in a boat by themselves with two older ladies for chaperons. As soon as the girl perceived this she pushed forward boldly, and, with true page-like officiousness, proffered her services to the beautiful Elizabeth Throckmorton.

"I have a page of mine own in attendance, young sir," said the lady with a smile. "Nathless I thank you for your courtesy."

"Fair lady," said Francis in a low tone, "hast ever heard of Hermes?"

"He was the messenger of the gods, sir," returned she in surprise. "Why?"

"Because I am he," returned the supposed page with a bow. "Albeit I come not from the gods. 'Twas Eros who sent me, therefore, I beseech you to permit me to hand you to the boat."

With a laugh and a deep blush Mistress Throckmorton extended her hand, and Francis led her to the barge, leaving the missive of Sir Walter in the maiden's soft palm.

Later in the day, receiving a summons from Raleigh she hastened to him and reported the success of her mission. "Gramercy, boy! thou wert most gallant in the delivery," laughed Sir Walter. "And now for thy first lesson with the sword." And soon the two were deep in the mysteries of fencing.

"Every man should be master of this weapon," declared the sailor when Francis, exhausted by the swift play of the blades, sank down for a few moments' rest. "Even though one be small of stature and weak of strength, dexterity with the sword may make him master of a much larger adversary. I could tell thee tales, lad, as would make thy hair to rise of the way I have seen the sword used. Have to, boy! I have but little more time to give thee. Thou art an apt scholar! So! that was a good parry. A little removing of the foot, a sudden turning of the hands, a slight declining of the body, and thine opponent is at thy mercy. So, lad, so!"



The fencing lesson was repeated the next day. Francis no longer dreaded the meeting with Edward Devereaux, and when the night fell, she stole away to the dueling place confident that she would be the victor in the affair.

There was no one at the wicket of the western gate, and she sat down to await the coming of her adversary with impatience. The broad yellow beams of the full moon lighted up the open spaces of the park with a brightness as if the sun had just set while the shadows under the trees were darker and heavier by contrast. Numerous statues gleamed in the pale light like ghosts newly risen from their sepulchres. Fountains threw jets of water into the air, caught the moonbeams, and fell again into their basins in showers of molten silver. A light breeze ruffled the leaves and came with refreshing coolness after the sultriness of the day. All was still save for the music of the night bird of song. The beauty of the scene, the melody of the nightingales, oppressed Francis with a sense of melancholy.

"Am I doing aright," she said aloud. "Surely I could do naught else unless I betrayed my sex. Now the matter hath gone so far that I must bear myself as if I were in sooth a boy. But I will not kill the lad. Only make him acknowledge my skill with the deer. I would that he would come. I know not why, but I feel my courage departing from me in the loneliness of the night."

At this instant, as if in answer to her wish, there was the sound of hurried footsteps, and soon the form of Edward Devereaux appeared among the trees.

"I crave thy pardon, Master Stafford," he cried, "if I have kept thee waiting. Sir Christopher Hatton detained me, and I could not come sooner. Draw and defend thyself."

He drew his own sword as he spoke and threw himself on guard. Without one word of reply Francis placed herself on the defensive. And then began a curious scene. Parry, thrust and parry—the steel rattled, and the strange duel was on. The nightingales ceased their singing as if amazed at the folly of the human things. The only sound that fell upon the air besides the clash of the blades was the labored breathing of the contestants. Francis' new-found knowledge stood her well in hand, and she pressed her opponent furiously. Suddenly she made a false step——

"A hit! a hit!" cried Edward Devereaux.

As the rapier entered her right arm the weakness of her sex overcame the girl. She uttered a faint cry, and, for the first time in her life, fell in a dead faint.



CHAPTER XV

THE STRANGE WEAKNESS OF FRANCIS STAFFORD

When Francis recovered consciousness she found Edward Devereaux bending over her with the utmost concern.

"You live," he cried joyfully as she opened her eyes. "Now Heaven be praised! Methought that I had killed thee, Master Stafford."

"Methought that it was to be a tilt a l'outrance," said Francis trying to rise. "Oh," she moaned sinking back as dizziness again assailed her. "I know not why but I am so weak. Bethink you that I am dying, Master Devereaux?"

"I understand it not," returned the lad much perturbed. "The wound is naught. See! I slashed the sleeve of thy doublet and examined it. The cut should tingle and smart as all such do when green, but there is naught in it that should cause thy death. Art thou still no better?"

"Nay;" said Francis feebly. "I am sure that my time is come. Good Edward, I beseech you, bring me a priest that he may shrive me."

"There is no priest in all the castle walls, Francis Stafford. Know you not that priests and all such popery are forbid? I will call a chirurgeon."

"Nay; do not so," said the girl. "What this weakness that has o'ertaken me may be, I know not, unless it be death. E'er I depart I would assoil my soul of all taint. Therefore incline thine ear, Master Devereaux, and receive my confession. It cuts me to the quick to make acknowledgment, but I have hated thee because thy skill with the bow was greater than mine." She paused for a moment. It was hard for Francis Stafford to confess fault even though she believed herself to be dying. Soon she continued: "It was thine arrow, Edward Devereaux, that slew the deer. I knew it at the time, but I liked not to own thy skill. Wilt thou pardon me?"

"Gladly, gladly," said Devereaux. "Only I know not how thou couldst have seen the arrow. Thou wert not there."

"I was, Edward," returned Francis. "I am in truth Francis Stafford, but I am the daughter instead of the son of my father."

"Thou!—A girl!" The youth drew back in astonishment. "And I struck thee with my sword? O chivalry! I am undone! I am undone!"

"Nay; take it not so to heart. The blame is not thine. How couldst thou know that I was other than I seemed?"

"But I struck thee!" The boy seemed almost stunned. "Would Sidney have been guilty of such an act? Would the basest hind in the field have lifted a sword against a woman? Fair mistress," he cried in distress offering his sword to her, "do one last favor for Edward Devereaux. Bury that sword in the breast of him who is unworthy to bear it."

"In the name of St. George, what means this?" cried Lord Shrope as he and Lord Hunsdon ran out from among the trees.

"By my faith, my lord," cried the chamberlain bursting into a laugh. "If there has not been a duel!"

"Art hurt, Francis?" and Lord Shrope bent over the girl with solicitude.

"My lord, methought just now that I was dying, but the weakness that overcame me hath departed," and the girl staggered to her feet with his assistance.

"But thou art wounded? Girl, girl, what doth it mean?" Lord Shrope caught hold of the sleeve that dangled from her bared arm.

"Edward," said the lord chamberlain sternly, "I am surprised at thee. Is this thy honor? Thou wert to treat this girl with gentleness. I had thy word. Thou knowest also that no brawling is permitted near the person of the queen. It shall go hard with thee for this. Francis Stafford might not know the law, albeit ignorance excuses none, but thou didst. Besides, in the name of chivalry, what cause had you to draw your sword against a maiden?"

"My lord," said Devereaux who had received the rebuke with bowed head, "deal with me as you list. There is no penalty too severe to be visited upon me. There is naught that can restore self-esteem to Edward Devereaux. But, I beseech you, believe me when I say that I knew not until now that yon maiden was a boy only in attire. My lord, believe this, and you may do with me as you will."

"'Tis true," corroborated Francis. "He is no more at fault for the encounter than I, my lord. And he knew not that I was not a boy, until, thinking that my end was near, I told him. I know not why I felt so weak."

"Thou didst swoon, child," said Lord Shrope. "'Tis a matter that is of frequent occurrence among thy sex. Didst never experience it before?"

"Never," replied Francis with a light laugh. Save for the sting and smart of the wound she was fully herself. "And I like it not. I' faith, were I to have them often, there would be few sins of Francis Stafford's that would be unknown."

"Didst confess to Edward?" laughed Lord Shrope. "You two should be great friends anent this."

"No;" said Francis. "I confessed that he killed the deer, and that its horns were justly his. I will not retract that, but still do I count him mine enemy, even as his father and mine are at feud."

"So be it," said Edward Devereaux mournfully. "Thou canst not, maiden, hate me more than I loathe myself."

"Come, Francis," said Lord Shrope, "we must to my lady. We were filled with alarm when thou didst not come at the usual hour, and my lord and I have sought for thee everywhere. It was lucky chance that brought us this way. Child, child, I would that thy father had thee with him, or else were here. I would also that the queen were not so obdurate in her mind against thee. But she will not have thy name broached to her. Something lies underneath it all. Hadst thou been concerned in treasonous undertakings the matter would be plain. As it is—but why think of it? That wound of thine which to a man would be a mere scratch must with thee be looked to. Let us away."

The inconvenience caused by the hurt was short, but, before the girl resumed her place among the pages, Lord Shrope again ventured to speak of her to the queen.

"My liege," he said one morning when the queen had been particularly gracious to him, "I would that you would let me speak of Francis Stafford. There is somewhat——"

"Now a murrain on thee, Shrope, for mentioning that name," cried Elizabeth her humor changing instantly. "We, too, have somewhat to say of Francis Stafford, but the time is not yet ripe. When it is, then will I hear what thou hast to say. Until then we would not be plagued with the matter. Hearest thou?"

"I do, my sovereign mistress," answered Lord Shrope humbly. "I hear and will heed thy commands. Only take not from me thy divine favor."

"Hadst thou ever been connected with any enterprise against her," he said to Francis as he reported the result of the interview, "I could understand it. As it is, her mood toward thee gives me great concern."

"Trouble not thyself, my good friend," answered Francis, though she herself was more disturbed than she cared to admit. Perhaps the journey to Chartley had come to the queen's ears, and that enterprise wore a different complexion now to the girl than it had done ere her coming to the court. "Trouble not about me. Thou canst do no more than thou hast done."

And so she went back to her place among the pages. The greeting between her and Edward Devereaux was formal. As the time passed she became aware that the lad's manner toward her was quite different from what it had been before their encounter. Now he seemed to regard her with something akin to admiration, and assumed a protecting air toward her, assuming many of her duties, that irked the girl exceedingly.

"Prithee, sirrah," she said one day pettishly when his guardianship was more than usually apparent, "who gave thee leave to watch over me? It irks me to have thee play the protector. Beshrew me, but Francis Stafford can care for herself."

"I crave pardon, Master Stafford," replied Devereaux who never by word or deed dropped a hint that he knew aught of her sex. "I crave pardon if I have offended. I will vex thee no more."

From that time his care was more unobtrusive, but Francis was still conscious of it, and it was gall and wormwood to her. She could not forget the acknowledgment of his skill had been wrung from her when she thought herself dying. Although she could not but admit that Devereaux was innocent in the matter, she felt as though a fraud had been perpetrated upon her, and, girl-like, held him responsible for it.

And so life at the court went on. A great family under the same walls, loving and hating. The courtiers divided into factions; their followers being kept from brawling only by the presence of the queen. The serving men followed the example of their betters and squabbled in the kitchen; the butlers drank on the sly in the cellars; the maids chattered in the halls; the pages pilfered from the buttery; the matrons busied in the still rooms compounding fragrant decoctions for perfumes, or bitter doses for medicine; the stewards weighing money in the treasury; gallants dueling in the orchard or meeting their ladies on the stairs. But Francis liked it all.

The gallant courtiers with their song and fence, and quibble and prattle and pun; the gaily dressed ladies; the masques in the great hall of the castle; the pomp and ceremony that attended the queen when she went abroad: all appealed to her aesthetic nature.

She soon learned to distinguish the courtiers. The Gipsy Earl of Leicester, with his swarthy handsome face; the tall and comely vice chamberlain, Sir Christopher Hatton; the venerable Burleigh; the trusty and wily Walsingham; the gay, witty and sarcastic Harrington, godson of the queen, and the fiery and impetuous Earl of Essex, stepson to Leicester.

Sometimes a low, broad-shouldered, heavily-built man would appear at court followed by brawny sailors who bore great chests of gold gathered from the Spanish Main. Then the court would be filled with the deeds of Sir Francis Drake, and of the wondrous happenings in that new world which lay over the sea.

Youth does not examine closely below the surface, and so to the girl all was bright and beautiful. She herself would have entered into the life more fully, but that the cloud of the queen's displeasure hung over her. There is no place where a sense of the august disapprobation makes itself so quickly felt as a court. And, as the days went by and Elizabeth still refused to permit her approach, Francis found herself more and more isolated.

Even the courtiers who had formerly called upon her to perform services for them now chose other of the pages, while the pages themselves no longer stopped to chat or gossip with her.

Thus the days went by.



CHAPTER XVI

WHAT CAME OF AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP

One thing had puzzled Francis upon her first arrival at the court. That was the number of those who had red hair. She soon came to know, however, that most of the ladies wore wigs of false hair over their own tresses out of compliment to the queen. The demand for hair was therefore great, and frequently the supply was not equal to it. Divers means were employed to obtain such locks, as the girl soon found to her sorrow.

"Where art thou from, my pretty page?" asked a lady one day pausing before her.

"Hampshire, an it please your ladyship," answered Francis grateful for the attention. She thought the lady must have recently arrived else she would not stop to bandy words with one who was without the pale of the queen's good will.

"Hampshire? Ah, yes! I passed through the shire once with Her Majesty on one of her progresses," remarked she. "My lad, know you that you are a pretty boy? But certes! of course you do. Nathless, hear it again from me."

"I thank your ladyship," returned Francis with blushing cheeks. "'Tis only your kindness that bids you so to speak."

"Hear the boy!" laughed the lady, shaking her finger archly. "Nay; I shall not give thee more compliments, but I would have thee know that I am thy friend. I am aware that the queen regards thee with disfavor, and I would aid thee. If thou carest to know more come to the Round Tower which is the dormitory of the maids of honor this night. There is my bower. I am the Lady Priscilla Rutland. Know you the place?"

"Yes, my lady; but why, why?——" began Francis, but the lady interrupted her.

"Fie, fie, naughty boy! art thou so curious? Ask no more until to-night." With a quizzical look she went on her way leaving the girl staring after her.

"What said the Lady Priscilla to thee?" demanded Edward Devereaux drawing near. "Beware of her, Francis Stafford. She is full of wiles and deceit. 'Tis unseemly to speak ill of a woman, but I would fain warn thee. When Mistress Priscilla is most gracious she is bent on mischief. Therefore do I bid thee to beware of her."

"Am I so rich in friends that I can cast from me one who proffers amity?" inquired the girl bitterly. "Who art thou, Master Devereaux, that thou sayst do this, or do that, and expect me to obey? Thou art mine foe, the son of my father's foe. What hast thou to do with me?"

"The son of thy father's foe, 'tis true," answered Devereaux, "but not thine, Francis. I make no war on women though I did unwittingly strike thee once. I repent me that ever I claimed to have slain that deer. Yet hear me, mistress. Had the foresters not come as they did, I would have given thee the horns. I came to thy father's castle to offer them to thee, but dost thou remember how didst greet me with scorn? And I, thinking thee to be thy brother, did answer in like manner."

"Thou hast been long in the telling, master," remarked the girl scornfully. "Dost expect me to believe thee?"

"Upon mine honor it is the truth. But to the matter in hand. Believe me, 'tis for thy good to have naught to do with the Lady Priscilla Rutland. I have been longer at the court than thou and therefore know of that of which I speak."

"I am tired of thy watching and prating," declared Francis with spirit. "I am no child to be chidden. Leave me, and know that Francis Stafford will do as seemeth best to her."

"As you will, mistress. But if you come to grief blame me not," and the lad walked away.

"I hate him," ejaculated the girl, her eyes filling with angry tears. "I hate him with his trite speeches and his sage advice! Why doth he not leave me in peace? I will go to the Lady Priscilla were it only to show him that I regard not his words."

Nevertheless she could not but wonder why any lady should take such a sudden interest in her, and a slight misgiving lurked in her heart as she approached the Round Tower, entered its portals, and made her way to the Lady Priscilla's bower.

The lady was lying on a couch surrounded by her tire women.

"So, my pretty lad," she said with a careless glance, "thou hast come. Didst thou not have enough of flattery? Gramercy! hath it not always been true that sugar would catch more flies than vinegar?"

"What mean you?" stammered Francis, her sensitive nature becoming aware of the change in the lady's manner from the caressing sweetness of the morning to the mocking air of the moment.

"Didst think thy beauty had ensnared me?" queried the lady quizzically. "It hath. As the yellow metal of the earth hath always thrown a spell over men so the red gold of thy hair hath fascinated me. I dote on thy locks, my fair page. Ay! so much so that they and I shall ne'er be parted more. Celeste! Annabelle! have at him!"

"Why, why," cried the girl, struggling to rise as the maids set upon her. "My lady! My lady!"

But strong as her outdoor life had made her, she was no match for the damsels of the Lady Priscilla. Soon she lay back in her chair bound hand and foot.

"No harm is meant thee, master page," remarked the lady as, armed with a huge pair of shears, she approached the maiden. "'Tis only that thy silken tresses have tangled my heart in their meshes until sleep hath fled my pillow. I think on their lustre day and night. And so do I take them to adorn mine own pate. Thinkest thou that they could cover a fairer head?"

"Oh, madam," cried the girl tearfully as the shears snipped relentlessly over her head, for her hair had always been a weak point with her. "O, spare my hair, I entreat!"

"Fie, sir page! Thou dost shame thy manhood. True, thou art yet guiltless of beard, yet still thou shouldst not play the woman."

"But, madam, I shall report this to the queen. What think you she will say when she knows that one of her ladies was guilty of this outrage?"

"She would not listen to thee, malapert. Should she do so, I would say that Priscilla Rutland knew no peace until she could emulate in her own locks the regal color that crowned her august mistress' brow. That she would stoop to do anything could she but faintly follow such beauty. But I fear not thy disclosure, sirrah. Art thou not in disgrace? Then what boots it what thou sayst?"

"True;" said Francis and opened her lips no more. Clip, clip, went the shears until at last all of her ringlets lay, a mass of ruddy gold, in a great heap among the rushes. Francis looked at them, and then at the mocking face of the lady, and her heart throbbed with wrath.

"Madam," she said as the Lady Priscilla untied her bonds and she was once more free, "I will never forgive this."

"Thou art rude, sirrah," laughed the lady. "But I blame thee not. Be patient, master page. I will come to thee when thy locks have been woven into a wig and thou shalt see how well they become me."

"Thou shalt never wear hair of mine," cried Francis, white with anger. Before the lady or her maids could prevent she seized a lamp from one of the scones and threw it into the midst of red curls.

"Help! Help!" cried the lady and the maids simultaneously, for the lamp which was of the simplest manufacture, being a wick fed by oil, set fire instantly to the curls and surrounding rushes. Scattering to the right and left the maids called lustily: "Fire! Fire! Seize the boy!"

Staying only long enough to see that there was no probability of saving the hair, Francis dashed through the arras, and fled through chamber after chamber trying to find an exit.

"This way," she heard a voice call as, bewildered and confused, she paused, not knowing which way to turn.

To her amazement, Edward Devereaux stood in a door of a chamber beckoning to her. She gave an exclamation of surprise but, enemy though she considered him, followed him without hesitation. Through a maze of rooms the boy led the way with the air of one to whom they were familiar; then down a flight of steps, through an open window and out upon a balcony that overlooked the great garden.

"We will conceal ourselves in the shrubbery," he said vaulting lightly over the rail into the garden below, followed closely by the girl. They stopped in the shadow of a clump of close clipped black yews. "Here we can remain," he said, "until the hue and cry is over. What happened, Francis?"

Francis poured forth her story rapidly.

"I hate this vile court," she cried with a burst of passionate tears as she concluded. "I want my home! Oh, I want to go home!"

"I blame you not, Francis Stafford," said Edward Devereaux forbearing to taunt her with the fact that had she heeded his words this last misery would not have come upon her. "You feel as we all feel at times, yet are we constrained to bide here. Were it in truth to serve the queen, God bless her, there would be joy in staying. But to be at the beck and call of every noble; to bear the trains of the ladies or dance attendance upon them is not the life that a youth wishes. I pity thee, Francis, and thy plight is not so bad as it will be should yon tower burn to the ground."

"Oh!" Francis looked up with startled eyes. "I did not think of that. It was not my intent to burn the tower. Think you that it is in danger, Edward?"

"Mayhap not," answered the boy regarding the tower with anxious eyes. "We can but watch."

The two stood looking at the building in silence. As the moments passed the lights disappeared from the windows, darkness settled over the tower, and all was quiet. Francis drew a long breath of relief.

"It was unthinking and unheeding in me to throw the light," she said. "What if the building had burned? The castle might have followed and thus endangered the life of the queen. Oh, miserable girl that I am! What would my father say to me?"

"Be not so cast down," comforted Edward. "Thou hadst great provocation, and pardon me, mistress, but thy temper is not of the gentlest."

"I know," said Francis with unwonted meekness. "But when I saw my hair, my pretty hair," she paused, her utterance choked, unwilling to give way to her grief before him.

The boy touched the shorn head compassionately.

"'Twill not be long before it will grow again," he said. "And so long as thou must wear that garb it will be all the better. I have seen many longing glances cast at thy locks, Francis. 'Tis wonder that such mishap hath not occurred before. If thou dost not wear them, thou hast at least put it out of their power to grace the head of another. There is something in that."

"Yes;" said Francis with a flash of spirit. "I would not that harm should come to the palace, yet glad am I that the tresses were consumed. Thou hast been kind to me, Master Devereaux. And yet thou art mine enemy!"

"Better an open enemy than a deceitful friend," quoth Edward sententiously. "Say no more, Francis Stafford. If I have been of service to thee, let it in some measure atone for my churlishness in killing that deer. But we must to our several abodes else we shall bring the displeasure of my lord chamberlain upon us. We shall have enough to answer to this charge. I fear the issue to-morrow. Come!"



CHAPTER XVII

WHAT FRANCIS OVERHEARD

Francis awaited the coming of the day with some trepidation, fearing that she might be obliged to render an account of the night before. And indeed had the result been other than it was, she would have been called to a very serious reckoning. It was marvelous that there was not more damage sustained, but it came to her ears during the day that the fire had been extinguished before it had gone beyond the rushes. The hair had been totally consumed.

The girl soon became aware that the episode was known throughout the court. When the Lady Priscilla Rutland made her appearance there was subdued laughter and titterings among the ladies and their gallants. Francis' shorn head was the cynosure of all eyes, but her manner was so haughty that it repelled all facetious remarks.

The incident was recounted to Elizabeth. The queen laughed heartily at the discomfiture of the lady for she was never ill pleased when one of her maids brought ridicule upon herself, and turning to Lord Shrope who stood near while it was being related she remarked graciously:

"Upon my word, my lord, there is more in that charge of thine than I thought. If certain rumors which have come to our ears be not verified we will have him placed nearer our person. Methinks such spirit well trained could be made useful."

"You speak truly, madam," returned Lord Shrope. "I know not what is the nature of the rumors, but knowing Francis Stafford, I make bold to say that Rumor hath played thee false."

"We shall see, my lord," was Elizabeth's reply.

Lord Shrope feared to press the matter, but as soon as it was expedient he hastened to seek Francis.

"The tide hath turned, child," he ejaculated. "Fate hath at last become propitious to thee, for Elizabeth hath begun to look upon thee with kindness. The accident of the hair hath done for thee what naught else hath been able to do," and he told her what the queen had said.

To his surprise Francis was not so elated as he expected. On the contrary his words filled her with alarm.

"Said the queen of what the rumors consisted?" she asked with uneasiness.

"No, child; but there can be naught of harm in them. Thy life hath been so innocent in thy Hampshire wilds that there is no act or thought of thine but could be laid open to the queen. Thou hast naught to fear from any gossip. 'Tis only when conscious of baseness that we fear to have our lives searched. Thou hast done nothing wrong; therefore fear nothing."

"My lord," said Francis touched by his faith, "you honor me too much. Pray Heaven that you may never have cause to repent your words."

"Tut, child! why should I repent them? Now be advised by me, and take advantage of the humor of the queen. A good husbandman, as thou knowest, improves the sunshine to make hay. We must do likewise. It is the queen's habit to repair to her closet to play each day upon the virginals. This she doeth for the most part privately, but, as she plays markedly well, she is not ill pleased to have others hear her. Especially is this true if it transpires accidentally. Now do you place yourself in the gallery behind the arras. When the queen plays seem to be drawn into her presence by the sweetness of her music, even as Orpheus drew Eurydice from among the demons. Then excuse thy intrusion with some well-timed phrase. Elizabeth is great, but she hath a weakness for judicious flattery the which, in truth, doth not ill accord with her femininity. Then, if she receive thee graciously, throw thyself upon her mercy and confess all."

"But, my lord, doth it not savor too much of guile?" objected Francis, her spirit revolting at the manner of the transaction.

"It doth, Francis, but what would you? 'Tis the manner of all courts, and the queen is not deceived thereby. Such things the rather appeal to her if the fashion of them be adroit. What boots the method then if the end is accomplished, and the queen pleased. No harm is done."

"My lord, I like not the style of it. It seemeth to me that nothing is ever done in a straightforward manner any more. Is life full of naught but crookedness and devious windings and turnings? Let me go to the queen openly, I beseech you."

"Nay; 'twill avail thee nothing. Subdue thy pride for once, and be guided by one to whom all the ways of the court are as an open book. Thou dost hold thyself with too much of spirit. Set not thyself above those who are older and of superior wisdom."

Francis felt the rebuke so sharply spoken, and answered in a conciliatory manner.

"My lord, I intend not to hold my judgment higher than thine for thou art of superior wisdom and age. I am willing to be guided by thee, but I would that the end could be gained by other ways than those of crookedness."

"'Tis for thy parents' sake as well as thine," observed the other. "Thou knowest how full of anxiety they must be, and how solicitously they await thy return. Thou shouldst be willing to adopt any course that would allay that uneasiness and restore thee to their arms."

"And I am willing," responded the girl with fervor. "Away, indecision! Away, doubts! No longer will I listen to ye; for what says Will Shakspeare:

"'Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.'

Speak on, my lord. Unfold again thy plan, and I will follow it, be the issue what it may."

"There spake the Stafford blood," exclaimed the nobleman approvingly. "Listen, girl, then haste thee to the queen's gallery; for on the hazard of this die depends thy fortune."

Francis gave heed to all of his instructions, and then made her way to the queen's apartment. The chamber was unoccupied, and she looked about in quest of some suitable hiding-place. At one end of the room the mullioned window opened upon a long balcony which overlooked the private garden. Francis resolved to place herself there rather than behind the rich tapestries.

She had scarcely taken her position near an open window where she could both see and hear without being herself seen when Elizabeth entered. To the girl's consternation she was not alone, but attended by Walsingham, Burleigh, Hatton and Leicester.

Elizabeth seemed much agitated, and Francis, unwilling to be a listener in matters of state, looked about her for some means of retiring when her attention was caught by a name.

"And thou art sure, Walsingham, of the truth of this matter? Hast thou indisputable proofs that Anthony Babington is guilty of design to murder us? Long have I known that he inclined toward the claims of our cousin, Mary of Scotland, but so too do my Lord Stafford, my Lord Percy, and other of our subjects. Yet none of these gentlemen would lift a hand against the person of his queen. Art sure of what thou art saying?"

"I have here the proofs, Your Majesty," returned Walsingham. "Here is a tablet upon which is painted the face of Babington and five others who are associated with him in perilous enterprise, as thou seest engraved. Further: here are letters which have passed between Mary of Scotland and the conspirators in which she commends the performance of the deed. The act was to be committed on thy way to chapel."

"Then, my lord, if this be true, why have you not apprehended these men? Methinks that the safety of your queen should be your first consideration."

"Her Highness is right," cried Leicester. "Upon her life depends not only the safety of her ministers but the welfare of the Commonwealth."

"Pardon me, my liege lady," said Walsingham, "if I have seemed to be careless of that life which is so dear to all of us. But I wished to involve Mary so deeply in this conspiracy as to open the way to rid the country of her. Your Majesty will never be safe while that woman lives. She is a menace as long as she remains in England."

"Deport her then," suggested Elizabeth. "France would gladly receive her."

"Nay, madam. That were to place her where she could abet the design of Phillip to invade England. That bourne from which no traveler returns is the only proper abode for Mary Stuart. And for thy protection, madam, I took precautions. Ballard, the priest, as thou knowest, hath long since been confined in the Tower. Babington has been lodged in mine own house where I could watch him. He can be taken at any time. That time hath now come. The warrants are issued, not only for him, but for Tilney, Savage, Tichbourne, Stafford and other conspirators associated in the enterprise."

Stafford! Francis gave a faint gasp, and started up in terror. Her father? Was he to be taken with these men? But the queen was speaking:

"Lord Stafford?" she said interrogatively. "Stafford, Walsingham? Surely not he. He is an honorable gentleman, and would not be concerned in such foul designs."

"Did I not tell you some time since that it was whispered in mine ear that Stafford and his son delivered letters to Mary? The whisper hath become a certainty. Those letters were to apprise the queen of the intent to slay thee, deliver her from custody, and raise her to the throne. This hour will I send to arrest Lord Stafford as well as the others. And then——"



"Death to the traitors," said Burleigh impressively. "They must perish, as must all who are traitors to England and to England's queen."

Francis waited to hear no more. Her father to be taken and tried for treason? That would mean death. She must warn him.

She ran quickly to the other end of the balcony, and swung herself over the balustrade. Hastily she made her way through the grounds to Lord Shrope's lodgings, bursting in upon that astonished nobleman just as he was about to partake of his dinner.



CHAPTER XVIII

AN ADVENTURE

"I must see thee, my lord, alone," she cried in such tones that her friend arose without a word and conducted her into his own withdrawing room.

"How now, Francis? What mishap hath attended thy enterprise? Gramercy, girl! what is it? Thou art disheveled and as excited as though some untoward accident had befallen thee. What said the queen? Say what hath happened?"

"My lord," gasped the girl scarcely able to articulate, "once thou didst love my father. For the sake of that love, I pray you, grant me aid to reach him."

"Child, what is it?" cried he in alarm "Tell me what hath occurred? Hath Elizabeth sent thee from her?"

"I have not seen the queen," said Francis trying to speak with calmness. "After I had hidden myself as you bade me, the queen in company with Hatton, Lord Burleigh, Sir Francis Walsingham and Lord Leicester entered the chamber. They discovered to her a plot to slay her, and to elevate Mary of Scotland to the throne, furthered by Anthony Babington, and others, among whom they named my father. My lord, I must go to him. Aid me I beseech you."

Lord Shrope's face turned white, and he withdrew himself from the girl's clinging hands.

"A plot to slay the queen? The saints defend us! Girl, I cannot, I dare not aid thee. It would be as much as my life is worth."

"You must, my lord. I must reach my father. I must and will, my lord."

"If William Stafford be concerned in conspiracy against Elizabeth he must abide the consequences. I will aid no traitor to the queen."

"My lord, he is no traitor," cried the girl in despair. "He did wish to release Mary from bondage, for he had compassion on her misery as who hath not? But that he is party to the design to murder the queen, I deny. I know, my lord, I know."

"What do you know? Are you too engaged in conspiracies? I thought thee as innocent as the daisy that grows in thy father's field."

"I am in no plots nor conspiracies, sir," declared Francis. "But we lose time in idle words. Give me thine aid to reach my father, I implore thee."

"Never, girl! And thou,—thou must be restrained of thy liberty, for I see that thou knowest much of this matter."

He turned toward the door as he spoke, but Francis was before him.

"My lord," she said, and there was determination in her manner, "thou shalt not touch me, nor cause others to touch me. Heaven be my witness that I speak truth when I say that my father is innocent of design to murder the queen. I must have means to reach him, and thou must give them to me."

"Must? Thou useth strange terms, girl! Not only will I not give thee aid, but I will take thee into custody."

He sprang toward her, but the girl turned upon him fiercely with uplifted dagger.

"Lay but one finger upon me, and I will slay thee," she said in a low intense voice.

"Francis Stafford, this from you?"

"Ay, sir, from me. I would kill thee, or any who sought to hold me from my father. The queen herself should not keep me from him."

"Seditious girl! those are words of treason."

"I care not," cried Francis recklessly. "I care not, my lord. And if thou wilt not give me aid thy life shall pay the forfeit."

"Dost threaten me, girl?"

"Ay! if you deny me. I will slay thee and take thy signet ring."

"If I aid thee, what then?"

"I will tell no word of it to any man," declared she earnestly. "No word, my lord. Thou shalt not be implicated in any manner, as indeed, why should you? I am determined to reach my father, and if to do so I must kill thee, I will do so."

"I believe in thee, Francis. Thy love for him is great. For the sake of that love, and also for that which once I bore him, I will aid thee. Not because of thy threats, girl. They are but talk of an excited brain."

"Nay, my lord; you do me wrong. I would carry them out if it were necessary, albeit I am glad to have gained the end without bloodshed."

"Here is my signet ring, Francis. By that token the boatmen will take thee to London. By that token also thou mayest obtain horses at my house. Go, girl! Even now thou mayest be too late. As for me, with that ring on thee, 'twill be my undoing, but—take it."

"Say that I stole it, my lord. Say that I forced it from thee," cried Francis, receiving it from him joyfully.

"That thou forced it from me?" echoed Lord Shrope with a laugh. "Why, girl, I had rather be beheaded."

"Then will I leave it at thy house in London when I shall have obtained a horse," said the girl dropping upon one knee by his side. "Forgive me, my lord, for my words," and she kissed his hand with fervor. "Thou hast always been kind to me, but my father, sir. There is naught that I would not do for him."

"Thou art forgiven. But hasten! Time is precious."

Without further parley Francis bounded from the room, and hurried through the palace yard, out of the great gate and down to the steps that led to the river.

Within the yard and at the landing-place there was a great deal of confusion. Servitors were running to and fro, courtiers were grouped together talking excitedly, while numerous officials and dignitaries were taking boat for London. Among these latter the girl discerned the form of Walsingham, the queen's secretary of state. Her heart sank at sight of him.

"He goes to send pursuivants for my father," was her thought, and her conclusion was correct. The secretary was indeed on his way to cause the arrest of the conspirators.

Seeing her among the followers of Walsingham, the watermen permitted her to enter one of the wherries and she found herself being carried to London more expeditiously than would otherwise have been the case. There was no indulgence on the part of the boatmen in song. Stern and silent they bent to their oars, responding with all their mights to Walsingham's "Faster, my men, faster!"

It seemed to Francis that they no sooner reached London than the whole city was ablaze with the news. Traffic was suspended, and citizens discussed in hushed accents the plot to kill the queen.

Francis made haste to Lord Shrope's house in Broad Street, and by means of the ring, procured an excellent horse. Mounting him she urged the animal to great speed and was soon outside the city.

"Heaven grant that I may reach my father before Walsingham's men," she murmured. "I have gotten the start of them somehow. Let me make the most of it."

Now the reason for her advantage was this: several of the conspirators, notably the six who had associated together to assassinate the queen, were in London awaiting their opportunity. Anthony Babington lodged at Walsingham's own house, lured there by the wily secretary under pretense of taking him into his confidence; while Babington, to further his own ends, seemingly acquiesced in the minister's plans. It was a case of duplicity against duplicity, craft matched against craft, with the odds on the side of Elizabeth's brainy secretary. For the reason that the chief conspirators were in London, Walsingham tarried there to apprehend them before sending forth to arrest the other gentlemen concerned in the plot who lived somewhat remotely from the city. But the conspirators had gotten wind of his intentions, and when he reached the city they had fled.

All this the girl did not know until long afterward. Now she pushed forward with the utmost expedition, hoping to reach the Hall before the pursuivants started. The weather was warm, it being the last of July, and the Hall was two days' journey from London by hard riding. Therefore whatever distance she might gain in the first stage of the trip would be of incalculable advantage.

Toward the end of the day, her horse showing great signs of fatigue, Francis was of necessity forced to allow the animal to settle into a walk. As the steed slackened pace the girl relapsed into thought. So absorbed did she become that she was startled into something closely akin to fright when a man sprang from behind some trees, ran into the road, and seized her horse by the bridle.

At this time the woods and forests of England were infested by highwaymen, gipsies, or Egyptians as they were called, and wandering vagrants whose depredations had been the cause of severe legislation to rid the country of its pests. It had not occurred to Francis that she might be molested by any of these, and she could not forbear a slight scream at the appearance of the man.

His clothing, though of rich material, was torn and ragged as though it had been caught by thorns in the unfrequented paths of the forest. His head was bare of covering, his locks disheveled; his face and hands were of an uneven dark color as though stained with some decoction unskilfully applied. His whole manner was so distraught that Francis trembled excessively.

"Boy," cried the man wildly, "dismount, and give me thy horse."

At the first sound of his voice the girl started violently, leaned forward and scanned his face keenly.

"Anthony Babington," she cried as she recognized the unhappy man, "how came you here?"

"You know me?" cried Babington in dismay. "Who in the fiend's name are you that know me?"

"One that knows all of your nefarious purpose," said Francis accusingly, her girl nature imputing to this man her father's trouble. "Wretched man, knowest thou that the queen's men search for thee even now?"

"Ha!" cried Babington peering into her face, "'tis the page that was with Stafford at Salisbury. Boy, where is thy master?"

"At Stafford Hall."

"And thou! Thou art not with him. Hast thou been at court?" Babington peered suspiciously into her countenance.

"Yes;" answered the unsuspecting girl. "I have been at court, Anthony Babington, where all thy deed is known. The whole palace, ay! the whole city of London is in an uproar because of the discovery of thy intention to kill the queen. I was present when the matter was discovered to the queen. Death will be thy portion if thou art apprehended. Why stand you here? If you would save yourself, fly!"

"Thou present when it was discovered? Then it is thou who hast betrayed us? Varlet! Base brawler of men's secrets! die, ere thou canst betray others."

His dagger flashed in the air as he spoke, but ere it could descend Francis gave him a sharp, stinging cut across the face with her whip. With a cry of rage Babington let fall the poniard, and before he could regain the weapon the girl dashed away. On she rode, never stopping until at length the night fell, and she knew that she was far from the wretched Babington.



CHAPTER XIX

A SHELTER FROM THE STORM

The morning of the second day found Francis once more on her way without having seen any of the queen's men. The day was unusually warm, and both the girl and her horse, wearied by the hard riding, showed the effects of the journey. But fatigued though she was she pushed resolutely on, pausing only to care for the tired animal. At length the road entered a deep wood and she gave a sigh of relief as the grateful shade of the trees enveloped her. The horse too seemed to revive somewhat and went forward with more briskness.

So dense was the shade that Francis was not aware that the sky had become overcast with clouds until a distant peal of thunder broke upon her ear.

"A storm is coming," she cried. "I must seek shelter; but where?"

It was a problem that would have puzzled a head older and wiser than that of Francis Stafford. She was in the midst of a dense forest. She looked about her in dismay.

"Beshrew me!" she uttered, "these woods are impenetrable enough to furnish hiding-place for Robin Hood and all his men. Surely there must be an inn or house somewhere near. Patience! I will find shelter. On, good horse!"

The mutterings of the thunder became louder and deeper as the storm approached. The clouds scudded across the heavens swiftly, borne on the wings of a heavy wind. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky followed by a deafening crash of thunder, and the storm broke in all its force. The rain came down in torrents. The trees bent and swayed in the wind, tossing their proud heads as if in defiance to the storm king. The horse snorted in terror as flash after flash of lightning blazed across the road. Francis was drenched to the skin, but she struggled on, soothing the frightened animal as best she could.

Presently she thought she saw an opening in the trees. Drawing closer she was overjoyed to find that there really was a path through the wood. Turning into it she followed it for some distance, finally coming to an open glade where stood what looked to be an ancient inn.

One wing had fallen into decay. The rose covered trellis of the porch lay rotting on the ground. All about the building hung an air of dilapidation and decay that forbade the thought of cheer. One part of the tumbled down structure looked as though it might serve as a shelter, and the girl hastened to the door of this portion and knocked.