There was no response, and Francis rapped again; this time more loudly than before, resolving to force the door should there be no answer. She waited a few moments, and then there came a high shrill voice from behind the closed door.

"Who's there?"

"One who desires shelter from the storm. Open, i' God's name!"

"And who be ye that seek shelter of Dame Margery? Know you not that men call me the white witch?"

"I care not," exclaimed Francis impatiently. "Open, woman, else I will force the door."

There was a muttering of protest, then the bolts were drawn, and the door opened. A woman stood in the aperture. A woman, old and bent, and looking not unlike the witch she called herself. A hood of brown sat on her white hair; a brown lappet was thrown about her, and she supported herself by means of a staff. Her black eyes regarded the girl with keenness from under her shaggy brows.

"Now thou art brave, forsooth, who dares take shelter here," she said. "There are those, and they are many, who would brave the fiercest storm rather than risk Dame Margery's evil eye."

"But not I," said Francis boldly. Nevertheless she made the sign of the cross, for the age was a superstitious one and the belief in witches and witchcraft well nigh universal. "Good dame, tell me, I pray, where I may put my horse. Give us both shelter, and thou shall have this angel for thy guerdon."

She held the gold piece out as she spoke. The woman's fingers closed over it eagerly.

"Back of the house are the stables," she said a trifle more civilly. "There will ye find food for the beast as well as cover. But thou wilt have to be thine own groom, young sir. These old bones be racked with rheums."

"I thank you," answered Francis briefly. Following the direction indicated by the beldame she led her horse round the house where she found the stables in somewhat better condition than she had expected. After looking after the welfare of the animal she muttered a short prayer, and entered the dwelling with a bold front.

The door gave entrance into a large, low ceiled room whose rafters were grimed with smoke and dirt. A low bed stood in one corner of the room; a small deal table and three chairs completed the simple furnishings, but the girl's eyes were caught by the strings of herbs that depended from the walls, and the cabalistic signs that were everywhere in evidence. A fire burned on the hearth and over it, depending from a crane, hung a large kettle in which something savory was brewing.

A black cat which had been stretched near the fire rose at her entrance, and spat as if he resented the intrusion as well as his mistress. Francis glanced at the mysterious signs, the black cat, the old woman, and a half wish came into her mind that she had braved the fury of the storm rather than enter such an abode. As if in answer to her thought the dame spoke:

"Draw nigh the fire, boy, and dry thy wet garments. Marry! hearest thou the rain? Even the dwelling of a witch, I trow, is better than to be out in't. Hark!"

The storm had redoubled its fury. The wind shrieked and howled as though a thousand demons were loosed from durance and were exulting in their freedom. The rain came down in sheets, while peal on peal of thunder crashed and rolled. Francis shuddered and drew nearer the fire. The steam arose from her saturated garments, and rendered her uncomfortable. The old woman noticed her discomfort and said not unkindly:

"Boy, no garments have I of thy sex, but if thou wilt play the woman for the nonce thou canst have of mine apparel until thine own be dried."

For the first time since she had left the court Francis laughed. She flushed rosy red under the old woman's glance, and then grew bewildered and confused at her continued scrutiny, and answered with an effort at self-command.

"I thank you, my good dame, but I will stay as I am an it please you."

"Content yourself,—master," answered the dame with the slightest hesitation before the word. "'Twas but to soften thy distress."

She spoke no more, but busied herself about the brew over the fire. Presently she placed some of the stew before the girl, saying,

"Eat, sir. Thou wilt find it to thy liking, I trow."

"It is in sooth," replied Francis falling to heartily. Under the influence of warmth and comfort her fear of the woman had vanished. "Think you, good mother, that the storm will soon pass?"

"Nay;" answered she her face softening at the appellation. "Not till midnight comes; for

"When storm comes at end of day The midnight hour takes the rain away.'"

The girl's face clouded.

"Then I must forth at midnight," she declared.

"Thy need must be urgent that impels thee onward through the darkness," observed the woman keenly. "Boy, what is thy business? Would have me read the stars for its issue?"

"Nay, mother," answered Francis in agitated tones. "Were it favorable all would be well, but if it were evil I would not know of it. But it will not be ill. It must not, shall not be!"

She arose and paced the floor, chafing that she must be inactive when time was so precious. The dame regarded her curiously. Presently she spoke.

"Mistress, I may not call thee because of thy garb. Master, I cannot because of thy sex; but whatsoe'er thou art, tell old Margery why thou art so dressed, and why you wander forth alone?"

"Woman, are you in very truth a witch?" cried the girl in astonishment.

"So men call me," returned Margery dryly.

"But save for the few who were told, not one at the court penetrated my masquerade," said Francis. "Then how is it, that thou, at our first meeting, know that my dress covers a maiden?"

"Old Margery hath lived long, and her eyes are sharp," answered the dame. "But tell me. What brings you hither, if you are of the court?"

Francis paused in front of the woman and looked long and earnestly into her eyes. Something she saw there made her say impulsively:

"Good mother, thou must be in truth the witch men call thee, because thine eyes impel me to tell thee all. Listen! and I will unfold the tale from the beginning." And she recounted the affair of Elizabeth's coming, the reason for donning the page's dress, her going to court, and now the cause of her desire to reach her father. The woman listened attentively.

"Child, thou hast done well. And thou sayst that none of the queen's men have passed thee?"

"None, mother. I have outstripped them all," exulted Francis. "Let me but continue in the lead for a few hours longer so that my father may have opportunity to get to a place of safety, and I care not how soon they come."

At this moment there came the sound of hoarse shouting of men, followed by the clatter of horses' hoofs, and then above the storm came a loud knocking at the door.

"Open in the name of the queen," came the stern command.



CHAPTER XX

FRANCIS FINDS A HELPER

"It is the pursuivants," cried Francis in consternation. "Good mother, hide me, I entreat. They must not know that I am here."

Then, indeed, was she thankful that she had taken the old woman into her confidence. The beldame arose and with an agility that was surprising in one of her years glided across the room, and opened a small door that was so small, and black, and grimy that it had escaped the girl's attention.

"Enter," whispered the woman. "Enter and fear nothing. They shall not know of thy presence."

Francis passed through the entrance and closed the door after her just as the rapping came again with renewed vigor.

"What, ho inside!" came a voice. "Give entrance, whosoe'er ye be, else it will be made by force."

"Now who be ye who would seek admittance to the house of a white witch?" asked Dame Margery's shrill voice.

"Gramercy! we will show who we be," and there was a sound as of a man pressing against the panels of the door. The dame undid the fastenings and threw open the door. A man who had evidently put his shoulder against it for the purpose of forcing an entrance sprawled his entire length on the floor. With a loud laugh at his discomfiture several other men crowded into the room.

"Marry! what an unmannerly welcome," cried the man picking himself up. "My good woman, is this the way to receive guests?"

"Be that the way to enter a body's house?" cried the dame. "Ye bean't gentle, surely, else ye would know that an old woman can't move the swiftest when she's bent with the rheums."

"I crave thy pardon, dame," said the leader who was evidently a man of high degree. "I crave thy pardon for such an unceremonious entrance. I thought that no one was within. Give us shelter from the storm and supper. Then must we on our way. We pay for your trouble."

"Well, ye won't get either supper or shelter here. Do ye take this for an inn?" she asked querulously.

"Nay, dame; for then would we find greeting and good cheer," returned the leader good naturedly. "This seemeth more in truth like witch's dwelling. Whatsoe'er it be here we stay until the storm abates. We are from the queen, woman."

Dame Margery said no more, but began to bestir herself about the supper.

"Some of you see about the horses," commanded the leader, placing himself before the fire.

Two of the men went out and presently returned.

"'Tis a crazy sort of a barn, sir," said one, "but it encloses as good a bit of horseflesh as e'er trod a heath. How now, dame? Where didst thou get so fine a horse?"

"Are there men here other than us?" asked the leader hastily. "If there be we must look to ourselves for we are on the queen's business, and naught must delay us."

"No men, sir," answered Margery.

"The stable is bad, sayst thou, Martin?" with an expression of relief on his face as he heard the dame's reply. "The dwelling, too, is none of the best."

"None asked ye to enter it," said the woman bluntly. "An ye like not mine abode, ye can leave it."

"Hold thy tongue, old beldame!" said the leader imperiously. "Nay;" as the dame flashed an angry glance at him, "be not prodigal of thy looks. An thou cast the evil eye on me, I'll sheathe my blade in thy flesh. We want no witch's work here."

Margery made no answer, but placed the supper before them. The men fell to, and soon disposed of all that was on the table. Then the leader began to show signs of impatience for the storm had not yet subsided.

"Beshrew me!" he exclaimed to his companions. "I fear that we will be compelled to pass the night in this vile place. Marry! how it rains!"

"It doth, Master Wainwright," answered one. "But better the storm than pass the night in the abode of a witch, and if yon dame be not the veriest witch in the kingdom then I ne'er saw one. The house makes me creepy. 'Tis fitting place for some dark deed to be committed. The horse in the stable, I dare say, belonged to some belated traveler caught like ourselves in a storm afar from an inn. Marked you how she answered me not when I spoke on't? How the wind howls, and how blue the taper burns! 'Sblood! I'd sooner be out in the storm."

"I would not," observed Master Wainwright. "One drenching a day is enough for me. Marry! there is naught to do but to possess our souls in patience. I dare say, we will o'ertake the boy on the morrow."

"Marry! yes, master. If he be out in this storm he will drown like a rat. Who would have thought that he could have kept so far ahead of us?"

"They ride fast who flee from justice," quoth another sententiously. "If we be not careful he will outstrip us, and we will be void of our quarry."

"Be not alarmed. We will o'ertake him," reassured the leader. "Though I like not for the storm to continue. It delays us too much." He mused for a moment and then turned to the dame suddenly.

"My good woman," he said, "have ye seen aught of a boy to-day?"

"A boy? What boy?" asked she stupidly.

"A boy of the court in page's dress. Hast thou seen him?"

"No boy have I seen this day," answered the dame stolidly. "Marry! nor for many days for the matter of that. What did ye want with the boy?"

"We have a warrant for his arrest," said the leader. "Also one for his father, Lord William Stafford. What think you, my good dame? There has been foul attempt to slay the queen."

"Ye do well to say 'attempt,'" said the woman. "Elizabeth will never die by the hand of an assassin."

"Say ye so?" asked the leader eagerly. "Good dame, how will she die?"

"Not in her bed. No hand shall be raised against her, and she dies by misease; yet shall she not die in bed," and the old woman nodded prophetically.

"Ask her how long the queen will live," whispered one. "The queen waxeth in years and it may not be amiss to be prepared."

"Seek no further, sir," said Margery quickly. "Know that thou wilt never live to see the day of her death. Thy time is nigh."

"Now a murrain on thee for that foul prophecy," cried the man starting up, his hand on the hilt of his sword. But Master Wainwright interposed.

"No brawling, sirrah. We are on the queen's business. Thou and thy right arm may be needed ere it be completed. Have done!"

The man sank back. Quiet fell upon them, broken only by the sweep of the rain against the house and the fitful howling of the wind. Night deepened, and still the storm continued. The men disposed themselves about the hearth for their damp clothing made them chilly, and soon one after another fell into slumber, until, after a time, all were asleep. Then Dame Margery rose to her feet and tiptoeing to the small door opened it, and passed out of the room.

Francis stood just within where she could hear everything that went on in the outer chamber. She came forward eagerly as the woman entered.

"Mother," she cried, "those men must be detained here, but how? Canst thou help me?"

"Child, I could make them sleep until the sun was high noon, but they are about the queen's business, and I durst not."

"Good mother, tell me how, and let me do it," coaxed Francis. "I must get to my father. O, if you have ever had a loved one, for the sake of that one, give me the aid I ask. I am but a girl. Weak and helpless with the great queen and her ministers against me. Yet I must warn my father. O dame, I lack so little of being home. If I had a few hours more, just a few hours! Please, good mother,"—she paused, and flinging her arms around the woman's neck, she kissed her. Dame Margery's frame shook and she held the girl close. Then she whispered, stroking her hair softly:

"My bonny maiden, thou shalt have thy wish. For that kiss I would give thee anything. It hath been years since Margery felt the touch of fresh young lips. Men fear me, and children shun me, but thou hast not. Once more, child."

Gratefully Francis kissed her; not once but many times. Then the dame stole softly out, and the girl followed her. To a corner cupboard the old woman went, and taking out a phial that held some dark mixture she held it to the light for a second and shook it gently. Then with that marvelous agility that had caused Francis to wonder earlier in the evening she glided among the sleeping men and let fall a tiny drop of the decoction near the nostrils of each slumberer. A sweet odor filled the room so subtle and penetrating that the girl beat a hasty retreat into the smaller chamber, fearing that she too might be overcome by it.

"Come, child," called Margery. "They sleep as slept the seven sleepers of long ago. And so they will sleep until the dawn. I dare not give them more for fear of death. And they are the queen's men. Thou wilt have to hasten, child. With these few hours' advantage thou shouldst reach thy father in time. The storm hath broken. Now thou must away."

The storm had indeed passed. The rain still fell, but gently. In the west a few stars peeped between the rifts in the clouds.

"How can I ever repay thee?" whispered Francis embracing the dame warmly. "Heaven bless thee, mother. Farewell!"

"Farewell. Fear naught. Trust to the guidance of thy horse and this lanthorne. The night is dark, but the dawn comes early. Ride now for thy life, girl. Farewell."



CHAPTER XXI

AN UNLOOKED FOR RECEPTION

The night was dark as Dame Margery had said. The broken clouds that flitted across the sky obscured the faint light of the stars that struggled to peep through the nebulous masses. At another time the superstitious spirit of the girl would have shrunk from the noises of the wood, and found omens in the hoot of the owl, or the moaning of the wind as it sobbed fitfully through the trees. But now the screech of the night bird and the soughing of the wind fell upon deaf ears for she was so absorbed in the one idea of getting home that all else was unheeded.

In the darkness she was obliged to proceed slowly, trusting rather to the instinct of the horse than to the dim light of the lantern. The dripping trees saturated her garments almost as thoroughly as if it were indeed raining, but the fire of filial love was in her heart, and its flame rendered her impervious to creature discomforts. At length the dawn came, and the sun's bright beams soon dispersed the mists of the night, his revivifying rays inspiring the girl with new courage. The horse, of his own volition, struck into a brisker gait, and Francis was obliged to control her emotion as each succeeding moment brought her nearer the Hall.

Just before noon the turrets of Stafford Hall came into view. With a cry of exultation she spurred her horse forward.

"On, on!" she cried. "Thy journey is almost done!"

At full gallop she sped through the gates and into the base court. Her father's horse, bridled and saddled, stood at the foot of the steps leading to the terrace.

"Mistress Francis," cried Brooks, the old servitor who held the horse, "how came you here?"

"My father?" gasped Francis as she sprang to the ground.

"In the presence chamber, mistress. He——"

She waited to hear no more, but ran up the steps, through the ante-rooms, and bounded into the presence chamber.

Lord Stafford and his wife stood with their arms twined about each other, as if in the act of saying farewell. They started at her entrance, the utmost surprise upon their faces when they saw who the intruder was.

"Father!" exclaimed Francis running to him with outstretched arms. "Father!"

Her father did not stir to meet her, but, folding his arms, regarded her sternly.

"False girl," he cried, "why come you hither?"

"To save thee, my father." Francis paused bewildered by his manner. "Father, they accuse thee of treason. The queen's men are coming to take thee to the Tower. You must fly."

"And do you bid me fly? You who have betrayed me? You whom I trusted? You who vowed that not even the rack could extort one syllable from your lips? Base girl, is it thus that thou dost requite my love? Away! Go back to that court whose enticements have caused thee to betray thy father."

"I betray thee?" cried Francis in horror. "I, Francis Stafford, betray my father? Never! Never!"

"Seek not to deny it, girl. One hath been here from the court. I know that every incident of the journey to Chartley, even to the meeting with Babington at Salisbury, is known to the queen. Who knew all this but thee? Fool that I was to confide in thee! But thou wert so cock-sure of thy ability! So apt and froward with thy promises, that I believed in thee."

"My father, if there are those who say that I betrayed thee, they speak not the truth. I have come to warn thee of peril. Even now the pursuivants are on their way to take thee. Oh, sir! tarry no longer but fly. 'Tis death to be taken, father. Death!"

She wrung her hands as her father stood there so unheedingly when time was so precious.

"And if it be death, by whose hand hath it been wrought? Why hast thou dallied at court so long? Why dost thou still wear that garb which shames thy modesty?"

"Father, hear me," cried Francis, flinging herself at his feet. "If ever thou didst bear aught of affection to her that kneels to thee, believe me when I say that I betrayed thee not. May my tongue be palsied if I speak not the truth. Father, by all the saints, I——"

"False girl, perjure not thy soul," and he strove to release himself from her grasp. "Unclasp thine arms, Francis Stafford, and hearken to a father's curse. May——"

"Hold, my lord!" shrieked Lady Stafford. "Curse not thy child! Curse not thine own flesh and blood!"

"No child is she of mine, madam. Rather do I believe her some changeling forced upon us by witches' craft. Never did Stafford betray trust before! Stay me not! Whether child or changeling yet still shall she be cursed."

"Father, father, I am innocent of having done this monstrous, wicked thing! 'Twas Anthony Babington that hath so maliciously spoken about me! I know——"

"How know you that 'twas Babington?" demanded her father quickly. "Girl, thine own words condemn thee. Say no more! I will listen to thy false words no longer. I curse the day that thou wast born. I curse thee——"

"Forbear," shrieked the girl in agonized tones. "O, father, withhold thy curse! Hear me for the love of mercy."

But Lord Stafford tore himself from her clinging hands, and hastily left the room.

"Father," cried Francis, darting after him. "Father!"

He heeded her not, but strode out of the castle to the place where old Brooks held his horse.

"Father, father!" The frantic girl reached him as he mounted his steed and held out her arms entreatingly. But the father answered never a word, and without another look at her gave spur to his horse, and dashed through the open gates of the court.

Then a great cry of anguish broke from the girl's lips. A black mist rose before her eyes, engulfing her in its choking, smothering embrace. She swayed unsteadily and fell in an unconscious heap upon the ground.



CHAPTER XXII

AS IT FELL OUT

When consciousness returned to Francis Stafford she was lying on a couch in the presence chamber with her mother bending over her.

"Mother," she cried as a full realization of all that had taken place rushed over her. "He is gone! My father is gone, and he hath cursed me!" And she burst into a flood of tears.

"Think not on it, child," said the mother, her own eyes streaming. "Thou didst try him greatly. It was ill in thee not to return to us, but thou art young and full well do I ken the allurements that court life holds for youth. But this thy father could have pardoned had this been all."

"My mother, art thou too against me?" The girl struggled to a sitting position, her indignation giving her strength. "Dost thou believe that I betrayed my father, or that I lingered at court from choice? Then what avails it if I tell thee all? Am I not thy child, and wherefore should I do so evil? Would that I had died ere this had come upon me!"

She flung herself back upon the couch and wept bitterly. Her mother, alarmed at the intensity of her grief, strove to soothe her.

"Let me make my moan, mother. If my father would have but listened, he would have known that I did not betray him; but he would not. He would not!"

"Judge him not too harshly, Francis. Now tell me the cause of thy delay. Why thou didst not send us word? Why thou didst not return?"

"Who was there to do my bidding? I would not have been here even yet had I not heard the queen and her ministers planning to arrest the conspirators. So soon as I heard my father's name I left the court without leave, and came hither with all dispatch to warn him."

"Tell me all, Francis," urged her mother. "All that hath happened thee from the beginning. I fear me much that thy father hath done thee wrong."

"He hath," said Francis bitterly. "Grievous wrong! And as I live by bread, there hath never been aught but love toward him in my heart. But now——Oh, my mother," she cried with another outburst of woe, "my heart is broken!"

"There, child! weep not so much. Thy father will repent him of his injustice when he learns the truth. Dry thine eyes and tell all that hath befallen thee."

Presently, when she had become calmer, Francis complied with the request, and told her mother all that had occurred since she left her.

"And thy hair! Thy pretty hair!" cried Lady Stafford weeping when Francis related that incident. "Ah, child, I repent me that ever I consented to let thee leave me. But continue, I pray thee! I would know all."

And the girl continued her narrative to its close. Her mother clasped her close when she finished it.

"We have done thee great wrong, my daughter. Forgive me and thy father also. We should have known that thou wouldst not have done this thing, but when we did not hear, and thou didst not come, we marveled at it greatly. This morning Anthony Babington came, and told us that all was known to the queen through thy treachery. And thou must be lenient toward us that we believed him."

"But why didst thou, mother! Have I been so ill a daughter that ye must believe the first word against me? I can not forgive it."

"Not now, my child, while thy hurt is recent, but later thy mother must not sue to thee in vain. But, Francis, come to my tiring room. I mislike that garb. Methinks it hath caused all our woe. Come, and let me see thee in thy proper attire once more."

"Nay;" said Francis resolutely, "from this time forth I wear none other. 'Twas at my father's bidding that I donned it. I will discard it only when he calls me 'daughter' again. Otherwise I shall go to my grave Francis Stafford, the page."

"Francis, Francis," wailed the lady, "thou art distraught. Entertain not such purpose, I entreat. Soften thy proud heart, and be not stubborn when thy mother pleads with thee. For my sake, child, remove that dress."

"Nay, mother;" replied she obdurately, "seek not to change my purpose, for it is fixed. This page's dress I wear until my father takes me once more to his heart."

"Thou art as unyielding and inflexible as thy sire," cried her mother. "What can I do between ye? Have thy way, thou wilful girl! Naught remains for thy mother but to pray that the day may be hastened when all will be well with us again."

Just then there came a clattering of hoofs in the courtyard, and the sound of voices. Lady Stafford sprang to her feet in alarm.

"What is it?" she cried. "Oh, child, what if they have taken thy father?"

"'Tis the queen's men," said Francis starting up. "They seek my father, but they seek in vain. I have foiled them."

A sense of exultation swept over her, causing her to forget for the time her father's distrust. She faced the men who entered the apartment triumphantly.

"What seek ye?" she demanded with scorn.

"Thy father, boy, and thee," was the reply. "We know that thou hast warned him so that he hath given us the slip. But marry! the game is but afoot, and we the greyhounds who will bring him to bay. Of him anon. Here is a warrant for one Francis Stafford. Art thou he?"

"I am," answered the girl haughtily.

"Then, Francis Stafford, son of William, Lord Stafford, in the name of the queen, I arrest thee on a charge of high treason."

"Arrest thee, Francis?" cried her mother flinging her arms about the girl. "Oh, child, why thee?"

"I was with my father at Chartley, mother," said Francis calmly. "If he be guilty of treason, why, then so am I."

"But I knew not that thou wert in danger," sobbed the mother. "Oh, Francis, why didst thou not go with thy father? Why didst thou not tell him of it? Why, why?"

"I did not think of it," answered Francis simply. "I thought only of him."

"How thou hast been misjudged," exclaimed the lady weeping bitterly. "Oh, cruel, cruel fate that hath befallen thee!"

"Cease thy lamentation, woman," commanded the officer sternly. "Make ready to accompany thy son to London."

"I?"

"My mother!" exclaimed Francis and her mother in one breath.

"Thou. Thou canst no longer remain here, because this Hall and its estate are forfeited to the crown by the treason of its owner. 'Tis the queen's command that thou dost go with thy son to London there to be immured in the Tower. Make ready, madam. Ye two must this hour to the queen."

"But what crime have I committed?" asked the poor lady in dismay.

"I know not, madam. 'Tis the queen's command," was the reply.

"'Tis the worst of all crimes, my mother," said Francis with irony. "Thou art too fair. 'Tis a fault unforgivable by Elizabeth."

"Hush, child," whispered the lady quickly. "Make our sad plight no worse by thy railing."

"Stay, boy!" cried Wainwright as Francis started to leave the apartment with her mother. "Remain where thou art. I would have speech with thee."

Wonderingly, the girl paused, and Master Wainwright, making a peremptory motion to Lady Stafford to leave them, continued:

"Thou art too elusive to be out of my sight, young sir. Now answer these queries. Wert thou in the dwelling of old Margery when we entered it?"

"Marry! what is it to thee where I was," answered Francis, desiring not to get the dame into trouble.

"Be not too pert, sir page. I wrung from the old woman that thou wert, after I found that we o'erslept. Now, boy, was it due to thee or to the witch that we slept so long?"

"To me, master," replied the girl boldly. "Upon my shoulders cast all blame. Impute nothing to the old woman. I did all, for I knew that I must distance thee to warn my father. And thou wert outstripped! Thou wert close after the game but he took to soil, and the track is lost, good master."

"Crow on, my bantam," cried Wainwright angrily. "Thou wilt sing another tune when Sir Francis Walsingham hath thee. And mark me, sirrah! The track will be regained, and the game brought to cover ere thou dost reach the Tower. Then upon Tower Hill thou canst behold its breaking up."

Francis turned pale as death at this reference to what would be her father's fate if taken.

"Ah, that hipped thee, young cock! Dost ken what happens to traitors? 'Twill be thy fate as well as thy father's. Dream on't, master! Now must you and your mother take horse for London."

"To-day?" said Francis faintly, a sense of weakness coming over her. "Oh, sir, not to-day, beseech you. I have ridden so much. I am so tired!"

"This day shalt thou start," said Wainwright rejoicing with all the might of a small man in the power over another. "No pleading will avail thee. Thou must go!"

"As you will then," answered Francis wearily, though every muscle in her tired body rebelled at this further tax upon her strength.

And so the long, weary journey to London was again begun.



CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE TOWER OF LONDON

It was a dreary journey. The motive which had sustained the girl in her former trip from the city to her home was lacking. The fatigue incident to travel, the unjust reception of her by her father, with the doubtfulness of his escape, and the uncertainty of what was to become of her mother and herself, now bore upon her with such overwhelming force as to almost crush even her brave spirit. Lady Stafford suffered a like mental anguish, and so, on account of the weakness of the two prisoners, the guard was compelled to return to the city by slow stages.

Upon their entrance within the gates they found that the whole city was in an uproar, caused by the apprehension of Anthony Babington and several others of the conspirators. Bells were ringing, bonfires burning and the most vehement satisfaction expressed by the people, who, with shouts and singing of psalms, gave every demonstration of joy at the escape of the queen from their treasonable designs.

When it became known that these two were also implicated, a hooting, jeering mob followed them through the streets, hurling vile epithets upon them, and taunting them with their disgrace. Lady Stafford drooped under the attack, but the assault roused the spirit in Francis, and she sat erect, her flashing eyes and contemptuous looks bespeaking the tempest that raged in her heart.

"Bear up, my mother," she said to Lady Stafford who could scarcely sit her horse. "Give not the rabble cause to laugh and jibe."

"But, my child, that we of the house of Stafford, be thus dishonored!" exclaimed the lady in anguish. "Oh, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Carest thou not for this disgrace?"

"I could weep my heart out, if it would avail aught," uttered Francis in low, intense tones. "Bethink you, mother, that this mob of the streets shall see one tear from me? Nay; 'twould give them too much of pleasure."

"And has it come to this? That thou shouldst be an example to thy mother?" asked the lady sitting up. "Let them rage! Not another tear shall they behold. There will be time enough for tears later."

And so saying she followed her daughter's example and rode with uplifted head, apparently indifferent to the taunts of the people who followed them down to the waterside, even to the wharf where they embarked for the Tower.

Babington and his companions occupied another boat which preceded them down the river, and Francis felt relief when she saw that her father was not among them. The tide being in their favor, the boat passed swiftly down the river, shot London Bridge, and all too soon drew near the sombre mass of the Tower.

In spite of her undaunted front Francis could not forbear a shudder as their wherry drew near Saint Thomas' tower. As a mere matter of form the boats were challenged by the sentinels. A wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened and they shot beneath the gloomy arch, through the Traitors' gate. A feeling of dread took possession of the girl as her gaze fell upon the slimy walls of the dismal arch. The wherrymen ceased rowing and the water rippled sullenly against the sides of the boat which soon, impelled by the former efforts of the oarsmen, touched the steps.

The lieutenant of the Tower, followed by numerous warders, appeared and gave acknowledgment of their receipt to the guard. Slowly the prisoners ascended the damp and slippery steps, Francis and her mother being the last to go up. A few quick commands and Babington and the others were hurried away, each man between two warders. Then the lieutenant turned to Lady Stafford.

"Follow me, madam," he said making a respectful salutation. "I will conduct you to your chamber, where, I pray your pardon, my orders are to place you under some restraint. You, young master, will remain here until my return. The time will be but short."

"Oh," cried the lady in supplicating tones, "are we to be separated?"

"Such are my commands, madam," returned he in tones of commiseration. "Thou art to be confined in the Brick Tower. Thy son in the Beauchamp Tower. Come!"

"Oh, my child! my child!" sobbed the mother throwing her arms about Francis. "What will be thy fate? What will they do to thee?"

"Calm thyself, my mother," comforted Francis. "We can but hope. Mayhap the good keeper will permit us to see each other occasionally. Go now, mother. We must not vex him."

Clasping her convulsively to her breast for a moment, Lady Stafford released her, and then followed the lieutenant, weeping bitterly.

Then Francis sat her down in the midst of the warders upon that very stone where Elizabeth had rested when she herself passed into the Tower, a prisoner to the jealousy of her sister, Mary. Soon the lieutenant returned and said courteously:

"And now, master, be pleased to follow me to your chamber."

Francis arose and followed him without a word. Through the outer ward they passed through the lofty portal which formed the principal entrance to the inner ward over which rose a dismal-looking structure, then called the Garden Tower, but later known as the Bloody Tower. Passing beneath these grim portals the lieutenant led his prisoner into the inner ward, over the Tower Green, and at last paused before an embattled structure of the time of King John, just opposite the great keep, or the White Tower. Ascending the circular stairway, he unlocked the double doors that led into the tower, and they passed into a large, low-roofed dark apartment that held a very scanty array of furniture. Then he withdrew, the bolt clasped, the chain clanged, and Francis was left alone.

A sense of desolation swept over the girl as the full realization of the situation burst upon her, and the blackness of despair filled her soul with anguish. She was alone. She had no one to lean upon. No ear to which she could impart her sorrows. Her mother a prisoner like herself. Her father—a fugitive wandering she knew not whither. As the bitterness of her lot assailed her in all its force she could no longer control herself but gave way to a passionate burst of grief. She looked at the stone walls by which she was enclosed, the massive iron-girded door and the hopelessness of her situation bore with crushing weight upon her.

There was no eye to see, no longer need for control, and she gave vent to her despair unrestrainedly. At length the fountain of her tears was dry, and becoming more composed she sought to regain her fortitude.

"I have done no wrong," she said aloud. "No wrong? Was it wrong to give those letters to Mary? But my father bade me. My father! Ah, no word of that must pass my lips. Cruel and unjust he hath been, but never shall word or act of mine bear witness against him. I must fortify my soul for I fear that I will be questioned."

Her foreboding proved true. Early the next morning the door leading into the chamber was opened, and Sir Francis Walsingham with two others entered. Francis' heart sank at sight of them, but she nerved herself for the ordeal.

"Good-morrow, Master Stafford," said the secretary courteously. "We give you good-morrow."

"Good-morrow, Sir Francis. And to you, gentlemen, good-morrow," returned she.

"My lad," said Walsingham not unkindly, seating himself before her, "thou art charged with a heinous crime, and methinks that thou art too young to be concerned in such weighty matters. Therefore, am I with these lords, come to examine thee somewhat anent it."

"With what am I charged, sir?" asked Francis.

"With that most atrocious of all crimes,—treason," was the reply.

"My lord, I meant not to be guilty of treason against the queen," said the girl earnestly. "If aught that I have done seemeth so in her eyes, believe me I pray you, when I say that it was not so intended."

"I do believe it," answered the secretary. "I think that thou hast been made use of by others to further design of bold and unscrupulous men. Didst thou ever meet with Anthony Babington?"

"Yes, Sir Francis."

"Where?"

"Once at Salisbury, and once in the forest as I left London."

"What passed at those meetings?" Walsingham drew closer, expecting from the girl's demeanor to find ready answers to his inquiries.

"I cannot tell you, sir, of the nature of the first," answered Francis. "I will gladly do so of the second."

"Relate it then."

"He was trying to make his escape when his design upon the queen became known. He sprang upon me when I was unaware, seized the bridle of my horse, and demanded that I give the animal to him."

"Which you refused?"

"Which I refused to do, sir."

"Did he recognize you?"

"Yes."

"And you him?"

"Yes, Sir Francis."

"Did you know that he was trying to escape from arrest?"

"Yes;" answered Francis again.

"Then why did you not let him have the horse?" queried Walsingham.

"Because I wished to reach my father," replied the girl simply.

"But why did you want to reach your father?" and the secretary bent forward. "How knew you that he was in danger?"

"Why, I heard you tell the queen that you were going to arrest him, and I wished to warn him."

"Thou heardst me tell the queen?" cried the minister in surprise. "Boy, how couldst thou? We were in the queen's own chamber. How couldst thou hear it?"

"I went there to seek a favor from Her Majesty, and awaited her coming upon the balcony outside the window. When the queen entered, the vice-chamberlain, Lord Burleigh, my Lord of Leicester, and yourself were with her. I feared then to come into the room. Thus I could but hear all that passed. When I found that my father was in danger I left the balcony and the palace as quickly, determined to warn him of his peril."

"Then you knew that he was concerned in the plot to kill the queen?" and Walsingham eyed her keenly.

"He was not," cried the girl eagerly.

"Then why should he flee?" asked the merciless inquisitor. "No peer of the realm hath aught to fear if he be innocent of foul design."

Francis was so disconcerted by this question that she did not attempt to reply, but looked at him hopelessly.

The wily minister saw her confusion and pressed his advantage.

"Thou needest not to answer, boy, on the condition that thou tell to me all that passed the first time that you saw Babington."

"I cannot do that, sir."

"'Twill be the better for thee," warned the secretary. "We have knowledge that thou and thy father did meet with Babington at an inn in Salisbury. For thine own sake, thou wouldst best reveal what took place. Reflect! Thine own safety depends upon it."

"I will not tell, Sir Francis," returned Francis bravely.

"Have a care, boy. There are ways of extorting confessions from unwilling lips."

"I do not misunderstand your meaning," returned the girl with white lips, "but I cannot tell."



"What did your father when the proposition was made to kill the queen?" asked Walsingham so suddenly that Francis was caught unawares.

"He would have naught to do with it," answered she promptly, glad to speak in his favor. "He rejected it with horror."

"Ah, ha! he did know of it!" ejaculated the secretary. "Thou hast betrayed thyself. Come! Let us have the full particulars."

"Sir," said Francis, perceiving the snare into which she had fallen, "I am unable to meet your craft with like guile. Therefore question me no further. I will say no more."

And despite all attempts to trip her into answering, she maintained an obstinate silence with regard to all their questions.

"Let us leave him," said Walsingham at length. "Obdurate lad, thou wilt regret thy stubbornness ere long. There are other means of dealing with such spirits than gentleness. We will return ere long, and if thou art still of the same mind, thou shalt taste them." And he withdrew, leaving Francis to face this new trial.



CHAPTER XXIV

A FRIEND IN NEED

It was with much apprehension that Francis awaited the return of the secretary. Stories that she had heard regarding the tortures inflicted upon prisoners in the Tower came to her mind with such vividness and force as to cause her soul to sicken with fear.

"I must not think on them," she said, trying to drive this terror from her mind. For diversion she arose and examined the inscriptions in the room. "How many there have been before me!" she mused gazing at the coats of arms and other devices with which the walls were covered. "What melancholy memorials of illustrious and unfortunate people! Here is the name of the Earl of Arundel."

She looked long and earnestly at the autograph of that unhappy nobleman, Phillip Howard, Earl of Arundel, who was beheaded for aspiring to the hand of Mary Stuart. This name was written boldly over the fireplace, and the girl turned from it with a sigh as the thought occurred to her that all who were connected in any manner with that ill-starred princess must meet with some untoward fate.

She passed with a shudder from the next inscription bearing the recent date of 1582, which read:

"Thomas Miagh which liethe here alone That fain wold from hence begone By torture straunge my trouth was tryed Yet of my liberty denied;"

for that "torture straunge" suggested thoughts of too painful a nature to dwell upon. The next bore the date, "Anno D. 1571, 10 Sept., and read:

"The most unhappy man in the world is he that is not patient in adversities; for men are not killed with the adversities they have, but with the impatience they suffer."

And so she went from one to another, marveling at the resignation, patience and endurance breathed by many of the inscriptions, and shuddering at the thought of those "straunge tortures" which were hinted at by others.

Three days elapsed. On the morning of the fourth day, as Francis sat listlessly awaiting the coming of her jailer with her noonday meal, which was the only diversion that her prison life afforded, the door opened to admit, not her keeper, but Sir Francis Walsingham and two warders. Every particle of color left her face at sight of him, and she uttered a silent prayer for help as she arose in response to his greeting.

"Well, young master, I hope that I find you in a more amiable frame of mind to-day?" half questioned, half asserted the secretary.

"Sir," replied she, "I am of the same opinion as heretofore. I confess that if to carry letters to Mary, Queen of Scots, be treason, then am I guilty of rebellion against the queen's highness. Therefore, adjudge me guilty, and give me, I beseech you, a speedy death. But, if the word of one who stands in peril of life may be taken, I solemnly declare that my father is innocent of all design of harming the Queen of England."

"That declaration, boy, will not save him," replied Walsingham sternly. "By not revealing the conspiracy, if he knew of it, he acquiesced in it. His first duty was to his sovereign. I now ask you for the last time with gentleness, in the name of the queen, did he know of it?"

Francis remained silent.

"'Tis enough," said the minister sternly. "'Tis the law that he who refuses to answer a query put in the queen's name, may be questioned in a far sharper manner. Bring him along, wardens."

"There is no need," said Francis with dignity as the two advanced toward her. "I will attend without force."

The wardens bowed and opening the door of the chamber, ushered her into the corridor. Traversing this for a short distance they came to a flight of steps which they descended. Here they were confronted by a strong door which one of the men opened. It admitted them to a dark, narrow passage of considerable extent so far as could be discerned. After pursuing a direct course for some time they came to an opening on the left, into which they struck. This hall was so narrow that they were obliged to walk singly. The roof was clustered with nitrous drops and the floor was slippery with moisture.

Francis did not know what part of the Tower she was in but she had heard that the whole substructure of the fortress was threaded with subterranean passages which led to different parts of the edifice. This particular one was contrived in the thickness of the ballium wall which led from Beauchamp Tower to Develin Tower. On either side of the corridor was a range of low, strong doors which gave entrance to dungeons, and horrible thoughts of what the inmates of these noisome cells must endure flashed across the girl's mind, rendering her faint and sick.

At the end of the passage was an open door leading to a small circular chamber which the four entered and the door was closed. Francis gave one quick glance around her and her senses reeled for the room was one of the torture chambers of the Tower.

On the ground was a large brazier beside which lay an immense pair of pincers. In one corner stood a great oaken frame about three feet high moved by rollers. This was the rack. Upon the wall hung a broad hoop of iron opening in the centre with a hinge—a dreadful instrument of torture called the Scavenger's daughter. The walls and floor were covered with gauntlets, saws and other implements of torture, but the rack caught and held her eyes with terrible fascination.

Walsingham seated himself at a small table upon which were writing materials, and turning to Francis said earnestly,

"Gaze about thee, boy, and reflect upon what thou seest. There is yet time to tell all that thou knowest. Think well ere thou dost doom thy tender limbs to the rack."

The perspiration started forth in great drops upon the girl's forehead. Her trembling lips could scarcely frame her utterance as she answered:

"Do to me as ye list, Sir Francis. I will not speak further concerning my father."

With an exclamation of impatience the secretary made a sign. From behind a stone pillar there stepped forth a man at whose appearance Francis could not forbear a scream. He was tall and very attenuated, clothed wholly in black. His face thin and sinister was of a pale sickly color while his eyes, black and glittering, held the gaze with a basilisk glare. He was the sworn tormentor of the Tower.

Francis shrieked at sight of him, striving in vain to control her terror. Just as the torturer reached her side the door was flung open and a warder, accompanied by Lord Shrope, burst into the room.

"Sir Francis, Sir Francis," cried Lord Shrope in agitated accents, "for the love of mercy, forbear!"

"My lord," cried Walsingham starting up, "what means this intrusion?"

"It means, sir, that for thy honor's sake, for the love which thou bearest thine own fair daughter, I implore you to desist. Wouldst thou subject a maiden to the rack?"

"A what, my lord?" cried the secretary aghast.

"A maiden," repeated Lord Shrope. "Francis Stafford is not the son but the daughter of Lord Stafford."

"Then, in the name of St. George, why this disguise?" asked the secretary.

"Tell him, child," commanded the nobleman, but Francis clung to him convulsively, unable to speak. Seeing her condition, Lord Shrope related the matter hurriedly, concluding with:

"I knew that you knew not her sex, Walsingham, so I sought you to inform you anent it. Learning that you had come here, and fearing that this step would be taken, for well do I ken the stubbornness of the girl where her father is concerned, I hastened hither."

"But, my lord, if this act be foregone how shall we proceed? Thou knowest well all evidence that can be obtained anent every one implicated with that 'bosom serpent, Mary,' should be gotten wil or nil."

"My Lord of Burleigh is seeking you," said Lord Shrope. "He reporteth that Babington hath made full confession, and hath thrown himself upon the mercy of the queen."

"Say you so?" Walsingham started for the door, and then paused. "Thy services will not be needed to-day," he said to the tormentor. "As for thee," turning to Francis, "thy sex protects thee from torture, but in sooth I wonder that one so young should be so staunch."

"Wouldst thou have a daughter speak aught that would go against her father?" asked Francis finding her voice at last. "Nay; 'twas cruel to expect it even though I were in truth my father's son."

"Yet still it hath been done," answered the secretary.

"Perchance thou wilt be more fortunate than I in informing Her Majesty of the matter," suggested Lord Shrope. "Thou hast her ear."

"True, my lord; yet what would it avail? The queen is not disposed to be lenient now since the design upon her life was so nearly successful. She would grant the maiden proper attire, I trow, but no more."

"I do not wish other garb than this," interposed the girl. "None shall give it me save my father."

"Then must the matter drop," said Walsingham. "Damsel, I will speak to the lieutenant of the Tower, and thou shalt have other lodgings but more clemency thou must not expect."

"I crave none, sir," answered Francis.

"My lord, will you come with me, or go with the girl?" queried the secretary.

"With you, Sir Francis. I dare not stay," whispered Lord Shrope. "Later, if I may, I will see thee, child. It would not do now."

And with a friendly pressure of her hands he followed after the minister while Francis was conducted back to her prison.



CHAPTER XXV

A GREAT SORROW BEFALLS FRANCIS

And now began a weary time for Francis Stafford. Some hope had crept into her heart after she had seen Lord Shrope, but as the days went by and she heard nothing from him she felt once more friendless and hopeless.

At first her jailer would have nothing to say to her and brought her food and drink, maintaining the strictest silence. As the girl became pale and worn from her confinement he softened visibly. So much so that Francis began anew her pleadings with him to give her some tidings of her mother.

"It is forbid to talk much with prisoners," said the man gruffly, yet not unkindly, "but I see no harm in telling thee that thy mother hath been moved nearer to thee."

"Nearer?" cried Francis joyfully. "Oh, good warder, pray you, where?"

"She hath been taken to the Bell Tower which lieth directly south of this tower," answered the keeper.

"So near?" murmured Francis. "That is welcome tidings, good jailer. Prithee tell me but one thing more. How bears she the confinement?"

"Nay, master; that I cannot answer. I am not her keeper, and therefore know naught of her condition." This he said compassionately for it was known to the warder and other officials of the Tower that Lady Stafford was failing fast under her imprisonment which was the reason of her removal to other quarters.

Not being aware of this fact Francis felt happier at the near proximity of her mother, and applied herself earnestly to the books which the jailer had brought at her solicitation.

"How Hugh Greville would rejoice could he but know what pleasure these give me," she murmured one day looking up from the volume she held in her hand. "And truly I never knew before the delights to be found in learning. If I continue I may become as learned as Lady Jane——Marry! was she not confined in this very room?"

Rising hastily she went to the wall that lay between the two recesses upon the left-hand side of the chamber and looked at the name carved there: IANE.

"Whom could it mean but that unhappy lady," she mused. "Perchance it is her spirit that haunts this gloomy abode and inspires me to studious thoughts. It must be that she too was immured in this room. If my grim keeper prove amiable I will ask him."

But the keeper soon deprived her of this comfort, small though it was.

"Nay;" he said in answer to her inquiry. "The Lady Jane was not kept here. That was written by either her husband or one of his brothers who were imprisoned in this place. Know you not that only male prisoners are incarcerated in the Beauchamp Tower? Look about at those inscriptions, and thou wilt see that none of them belong to women—save and except that one."

"True;" said Francis meditatively. "I had not observed that."

She relapsed into thought and the keeper withdrew. Francis cared no more for the signature. It had been something of a solace to think that she was occupying the same room as that used by the hapless Jane; so small a thing does it take to comfort one in such circumstances.

"I'll carve my own name," she resolved suddenly. "And then there will be one woman amongst them."

Taking her dagger from her belt, for that had been left to her, she began to cut her name as best she could upon the stone. It was an interesting occupation, and she was amazed to find how quickly the time sped while she was so engaged. The keeper smiled when he found her so intent upon her self-imposed task that she did not heed his entrance.

"They all do it," he remarked grimly. "Albeit thou hast waited longer than some. But eat, my master. There will be time and to spare for finishing."

"You speak truly," assented the girl almost cheerfully for the mere distraction of her thoughts served to raise her spirits. "Truly; and for that cause I will teach my hand to move more slowly so that it will take a long, long time. And I trow it will for the stone is very hard."

But despite her best efforts the name grew all too quickly, and, as many another had done before her, she grieved when her toil was ended.

FRANCIS STAFFORD, 1586

was the inscription which she had carved below that of IANE. A feeling of deep depression now took possession of her that even her books failed to dispel.

"If I could but see my mother," she said pleadingly to the jailor. "Do you not think, good sir, that I might? Let me speak to the lieutenant. Surely he will not refuse me!"

"Thou mayst see her soon," said the jailor with such a note of kindness in his voice that she looked up startled. "Meseems there is some talk of permitting it."

"Is there aught amiss?" asked she tremblingly.

"Nay; why should there be?" queried the keeper evasively. "This day perished more of the conspirators against the queen. Making fourteen in all."

"Was my father among them?" Francis gasped rather than asked the question.

"No, boy; he hath not been apprehended, and it is thought that he hath escaped into France."

"Oh, if it be in truth so. I care not then for aught else," murmured Francis.

"Then rest in peace; for of a certainty he hath not been taken, and thou wilt have dire need for all thy fortitude," and with these mysterious words he hastily quitted the room.

"What meant he?" asked Francis apprehensively. "What could he mean? What could befall me now? Perchance he meant that life would be demanded next. But no; the veriest wretch hath time given for preparation. Then why not I?"

She paced the floor restlessly unable to rid herself of the misgivings that were creeping over her. It was customary for the warder to lock her within one of the small cells that adjoined the larger chamber for greater security at night, but as the usual time passed and he did not come her uneasiness increased.

At last the key grated in the lock, and the door swung open to admit the lieutenant of the Tower and a warder.

"Be not alarmed, master," said the lieutenant courteously. "We are come to take thee to thy mother."

"What hath happened? Why come you at night to take me to her?" demanded Francis.

"Be brave, and I will tell thee. Thy mother hath not been well for some time and is failing fast. We fear that she will not live much longer. For that cause, and because it is her desire, are we taking thee to her. Nay; there is no time for lamentation now, boy. Bear thyself like a man."

For a moment Francis leaned on him heavily almost stunned by the information.

"Courage, lad. Far better death than the slow lingering of years in these grim walls. Many have entered here younger and fairer than she, and endured worse than death in a lifetime imprisonment. Grieve not, but the rather rejoice that she will be freed from sorrow."

"Peace!" cried Francis, her soul full of bitterness. "Peace! and lead me to my mother."

The lieutenant, without further speech, led the way across the Tower Green to the southwestern angle of the inner ballium where his own lodgings adjoined the Bell Tower. Kept a close prisoner for more than two months, at another time Francis would have been overpowered with joy at finding herself once more in the open air. But now the breeze fanned her cheeks unnoticed. She followed after the warder, who lighted the way with a torch, seeing and heeding nothing.

The short distance was soon traversed. Entering the lieutenant's lodgings they passed into a long gallery leading in a westerly direction and were soon in the upper chamber of the Bell Tower. This was the room occupied by Elizabeth at the time of her incarceration during her sister Mary's reign. That it had been the abode of royalty was the last thought that occurred to Francis Stafford. It held but one thing for her, which was the emaciated form of her mother who lay upon the bed.

With an exclamation of joy Lady Stafford tried to hold out her hands to her daughter, but dropped them weakly on her breast. Too moved to speak Francis could only clasp her close as if she could never let her go.

"My daughter! My daughter!" murmured the mother feebly. "At last I have thee, hold thee again!"

"My mother!" uttered the girl brokenly. "My mother!"

"Does she wander?" whispered the lieutenant to the physician. "Didst thou hear her say 'daughter'?"

"Yea; but her mind is clear. She is weak but not distraught." And the physician looked at the dying woman earnestly.

"Will she last long?" queried Sir Michael, the lieutenant, and the physician answered slowly:

"Nay; her life may go out at any moment."

As in a dream Francis heard both questions and answers, but did not comprehend their import. Presently her mother spoke:

"Francis, I am dying."

"Nay;" broke from the girl passionately. "Not now, mother. Not when we have just found each other again. You must not, shall not die."

"Hush, child! We must not spend the time in woe. I want you to promise me that never again will you be connected with plot against the queen. Promise me."

"She hath killed thee," burst from Francis wildly. "Killed thee, my mother, and driven my father forth a fugitive. Oh, I hate her! I hate her!"

"Hush, oh hush!" wailed the mother, a look of fear crossing her face as the lieutenant and the physician started forward at the girl's words. "Good masters, heed her not. She is distraught with grief. I—Francis——"

She threw out her arms and strove to clasp her daughter, but they fell to her side. A swift pallor spread over her face, a gasping, choking sound rattled noisily, and she was dead. For a moment the girl seemed dazed by what had happened, and then she threw herself upon her mother with a wild shriek.

"Mother, mother, speak to me!"

"Thy mother is dead," said the physician trying to draw her away.

"Touch me not," she cried in frenzied accents turning upon him so fiercely that involuntarily he recoiled. "Minion! leave me. Leave me with my mother."

"That may not be, my child," said the physician gently noting the wild light of her eyes. "That may not be. The queen——"

"The queen?" cried the girl shrilly. "Yes; the queen! England's great queen! Oh, she is truly great! 'Tis a crime to be fairer than the queen! Ha, ha! a great queen! Truly a great queen!"

"Girl or boy, whiche'er you be, cease such words," commanded the lieutenant sternly. "Thou utterest treason."

"Treason? Ay, sir, treason! Treason for thee, but not for me. I claim no queen but Mary of Scotland. I——"

"Mary of Scotland hath been condemned to death. She will be executed as soon as Elizabeth signs the death warrant."

"To die?" shrieked the girl. "Mary to die! If Mary must die, then shall Elizabeth also. Nay; stay me not! I go to kill the queen!"

She drew her poniard and made a dash for the door; but the lieutenant caught her ere she reached it.

"Unhand me, varlet," she panted. "Ye shall not stay me from my purpose."

"Girl, do you utter such words in the presence of the dead? Look on thy mother and say if still thou dost hold to thy design?"

He turned her forcibly toward her mother's form on the couch. Francis pressed a hand to her brow as though bewildered, and then as if drawn by that still calm face drew closer, and gazed steadfastly upon it. The sweet sereneness of the dead calmed her. Presently a sob convulsed her frame, and flinging herself upon the body she burst into a passion of weeping.

"Let her weep," observed the physician. "'Tis all that hath kept her from becoming completely distraught."

"I will send a woman to her," said the lieutenant. "The girl, if so she be, and no boy would rave so, hath been too long alone. We are but rude nurses for such sorrow. Truly it grieves me that one so young should meet with so much of misery."

And he left the apartment.



CHAPTER XXVI

A FELLOW PRISONER

A merciful illness prostrated Francis for many weeks, and when at length she crept slowly toward health, the winter had passed and spring was abroad in the land. Her convalescence was tedious, owing to a settled melancholy utterly unlike her usual buoyant disposition, which had taken possession of her. Upon one point only did a gleam of her native spirit flash forth. This was when Mrs. Shelton, the wife of one of the keepers, brought her the apparel suitable to her sex.

"Nay; vex me not with them, good mistress," exclaimed Francis. "'Twas by my father's command that I donned this attire, and, by my faith, I will exchange it for no other until he bids me."

"That may be never, Mistress Stafford," retorted the woman impatiently. "Thou mayst never see him again."

"Then will I wear it to my grave," was Francis' answer. "I am fixed in this resolve, Mistress Shelton, and naught can turn me from it."

"As ye please then," quoth the dame. "Full surely thou art as stubborn a lady as it hath ever been my hap to see. But if ye will not, ye will not;" and she took the garments away.

Francis now occupied her mother's apartment in the Bell Tower, and because of this fact found a curious contentment in it.

"It may be that her spirit lingers here loth to leave me alone," she thought, and she took to watching for a sign that such was the case.

She was roused from this dangerous train of thought by Mrs. Shelton appearing before her one day with a basket of figs. The girl uttered an exclamation of delight at sight of them, so small a thing does it take to arouse interest sometimes.

"For me?" she cried. "Whence came they? Who could have sent them?"

"Ask me not, mistress. I know naught of them save that they came from without the gates of the Tower. Sir Michael searched the basket, and as there was nothing but the fruit, he let it pass."

"Who could have sent them?" murmured Francis, again in ecstasy. It was so sweet not to be forgotten. To know that some one still remembered her. "Could it be my father? Nay; he would not dare. Lord Shrope? Yea; it must have been he. Good, kind friend that he is!"

From this time forward her recovery was rapid. And when the following month brought a bouquet of sweet smelling flowers, the third, a basket of cherries, her joy knew no bounds. Thereafter no month went by without some token reaching her from that unknown person who seemed so full of sweet remembrance of her.

"Now blessings be upon his head who hath so much of thought for me," she exclaimed rapturously as a guitar took the place of fruit or flowers. "No more shall I be lonely with such companion."

And so with books, guitar, and an occasional walk in the gardens of the lieutenant where she went to take the air, Francis passed her time not unhappily. She was upheld by the thought that she was not forgotten. Thus summer passed into fall; fall into winter, and winter in turn gave way to spring, to that memorable spring of 1588 when all England was stirred by the rumor of the threatened invasion of Spain. At this time the gifts to Francis ceased, and such an important part of her existence had they become that their stoppage grieved her more than the threats of the invasion.

Books and music lost interest, and she took to watching the comings and goings of prisoners through the grated loop-hole overlooking the south ward through which all personages must pass to reach the Garden Tower which was over the principal entrance to the inner ward. One day while thus engaged she uttered an ejaculation and bent forward to take a nearer view of a prisoner who was just brought within by way of the Byward Tower through which lay the main gate to the Tower. This was used from Tower Hill and by royalty when the Tower was used as a castle.

"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. Shelton, who was in the chamber.

"Edward Devereaux," answered the girl excitedly. "Now why hath he been sent here? Gramercy! methought none of the pages stood higher in the queen's favor than he."

"'Tis past knowing," remarked the woman in a matter-of-fact tone. "He who stands high with the queen to-day, to-morrow may be beheaded on Tower Hill. Marry! 'tis better to be one of the people, for they are held dear by the queen. Beseems that Her Grace cares naught for the courtiers. They are always being sent here, either to be held in durance for life, else to be beheaded. I am glad that I am not of the court."

Francis did not heed her words, but was so excited at beholding a face that she knew that she leaned forward as far as she could, calling loudly:

"Edward! Edward Devereaux!"

The youth looked up, but the girl was uncertain as to whether he saw her or not. Mrs. Shelton hurried forward at the sound of her voice.

"Child!" she cried pulling her forcibly from the window, "dost want to be taken elsewhere and lodged? There are other towers far gloomier than this, and if thou carest not to taste their shadows thou wilt be more circumspect."

"Thy pardon, mistress," said Francis recovering her self-possession. "I meant not to transgress, 'tis the first time since I saw my mother that I have looked upon a face that was known to me. I could not but greet him, e'en though he be mine enemy."

"Thine enemy?" said the woman curiously. "How now, mistress? Tell me the tale. 'Twill speed the hour and, forsooth, there is need of entertainment here."

Thus adjured Francis related the story of the shooting of the deer; the incident of the duel; spoke of the enmity that had always existed between the families of Staffords and Devereaux; narrated how Edward had favored her when the Lady Priscilla Rutland had stolen her hair; concluding with:

"Therefore, thou seest, good Mistress Shelton, that there can be naught but enmity betwixt us twain. He hath done me service, 'tis true, and otherwise is a proper youth, I dare say. Yet still he is mine enemy."

"'Yet still he is mine enemy,'" mocked Mrs. Shelton. "Marry, girl! 'Tis marvelous hate that thou showest when thou dost call to him when he hath been brought into durance. 'Yet still he is mine enemy.'" She laughed.

"Make merry, an ye will, mistress," said Francis, "but still is it as I tell ye."

"There, child! I meant not to vex thee," appeased the woman who had grown fond of Francis, so long had she been in her keeping. "I must learn more of the lad."

"Do find why he hath been committed," cried the girl eagerly. "I can but wonder at it. Hath he too been engaged in treasonable enterprise——"

"Nay;" interrupted Mrs. Shelton, "for then he would have entered under the tower of St. Thomas through the Traitor's Gate."

In a few days she reported to Francis that the charge against him was a nominal one. He seemed to be committed only to be restrained of his liberty and was given the privilege of the Tower, wandering through the wards at pleasure save only that he could not pass the outer walls of the fortress.

And so it happened one day that when Francis, attended by Mrs. Shelton, was taking the air in the lieutenant's garden Edward Devereaux chanced to be walking there also. Seeing them he doffed his bonnet and approached, deferentially speaking to Mrs. Shelton:

"Gracious madam, may I be permitted to speak with your charge?"

"It is not the custom for one prisoner to hold converse with another, young sir," replied Mrs. Shelton. "But, as ye are enemies, I will indulge thy request, albeit ye speak that I may hear all."

"I thank you, madam, for your courtesy," replied the youth bowing. "Mistress Francis, how fare you?"

"Well, Master Devereaux," answered Francis. "That is," she added, "as well as one may fare who rests under the displeasure of the queen."

"You say truly," sighed Devereaux. "Yet, me thinks that to be under the queen's displeasure brings not more ill than to stand high in her grace."

"What mean you, Master Devereaux?"

"Why, truly, you lie under her ill will, and so abide in this grim fortress; while I, who am her favorite page, do dwell in the same place."

"But wherefore?" asked Francis. "Of what crime hast thou been guilty?"

"None, Francis. Save and except that I wearied of the court and its vain pleasures. I would play a man's part as did Sir Phillip Sidney. There was a man, noble, chivalrous and brave! Ready to adventure all things, yet he was the flower of courtesy! He was my example. I wished, like him, to achieve renown, and so when the news came that the Armada was about to embark from Spain, I asked her leave to go with Drake, who was to set sail for Cadiz to obstruct the Spanish fleet's progress. She refused to let me go, and so I ran away to Plymouth, where was my Lord Howard in charge of our ships there awaiting the coming of the enemy. But the queen held me in so much favor that she feared for my safety, and so sent after me, and had me conveyed hither to remain until the danger be over. Gramercy!" he broke forth his lips curling with scorn, "am I to stay here mewed up like a girl when every son of England should be in arms against the Spaniard?"

"But are the Spaniards coming, in truth, Edward?"

"So rumor hath it, Francis. 'Twas said that they have set sail already, but I know not the truth of the matter."

"Thou art not much changed," said Francis presently.

"But thou art, Francis. Thou art taller, and thinner; yea, and paler," observed Devereaux with such a note of compassion in his voice that Francis flushed. The youth noted her annoyance and added quickly: "And still do you wear the dress of a page? Fie, Francis! art so enamored of male attire?"

"Nay; Master Devereaux," replied Francis. "I marvel that I tell thee why I do so, seeing that it concerns thee not, but I wish not to don my maiden dress until my father bids me. How long that will be, I trow not, since I have heard naught of him since I came to this place."

"Thy father dwells in France. He with some others of the conspirators succeeded in escaping to that country."

"And Lord Shrope? How is he? Fain would I know, for truly he hath been mine only friend in this dire time of need."

"Lord Shrope hath been in the Netherlands for nigh two years past, Francis."

"Marry, child!" exclaimed Mrs. Shelton. "Then it could not have been he who sent thee all those things."

"No; who, who could it have been? Methought in all England I had no friend but him. Would that I knew the donor's name that I might cherish it forever."

"'Twas thine enemy, Francis. Oh, stupid girl, where are thine eyes! See, his looks betray him," laughed Mrs. Shelton.

"Was it thou, Edward Devereaux?" demanded Francis.

"Well, what if it were thine enemy, Francis? What then? Wouldst still cherish his name?"

"Surely it was not thee, Edward Devereaux?"

"It was even I, Francis Stafford."

"But why, why?" asked she in bewilderment. "You are mine enemy and the son of my father's enemy. Why then shouldst thou show such favor to me?"

"I robbed thee of that deer, Francis. 'Twas fitting that I should amend the theft if possible." A merry twinkle crept into Edward's eye. "And thou hast still to forgive me the blow I struck thee in our encounter."

"I should thank thee, Master Devereaux," said Francis constrainedly. "I do thank thee from my heart, though I see no cause yet for thy action. At another season perchance I may be able to thank thee in manner more befitting the courtesy. I thought it from a friend, and it grieves me that I find it otherwise. Pray you pardon me that I can do no more than say, I thank you."

"'Tis enough," answered Edward. "At another season perchance thou mayst find it in thy heart to say, 'Ned, I forgive thee the deer; I forgive thee the blow that thou gavest me, and I forgive thee that thou art mine enemy.'"

"It may be," said the girl coldly. "Come, good mistress, 'tis time that we did go in. And so fare you well, Master Devereaux."

"Fare you well, mistress," answered Devereaux courteously.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE ESCAPE

Frequently after this Francis saw Edward Devereaux in the garden, but she preserved such a distant demeanor toward him that the youth did not dare to address her.

"Fie upon thee, lady bird," chided Mrs. Shelton. "Is it thus that thou dost requite such favor? Thou dost not deserve to be remembered."

"But I thought that the gifts came from Lord Shrope," said Francis. "And they are from mine enemy."

"But they served the self-same purpose, chuck, as if they were in truth from him. Did they not rouse thee from thy depression? I tell thee that I have been long in these grim walls, and I have seen men of high degree forgotten and forsaken by friends. They have remained here years without one token from without. Thou hast been favored to no small extent, and now thou dost repine and will not touch thy guitar because, forsooth, 'twas sent thee by 'thine enemy.' Marry! Pray Heaven send me such enemies!"

"It may be that I have been somewhat ungracious," said Francis penitently. "If thou wilt permit, good mistress, I will tell the lad so. But I wish it had been my Lord Shrope."

"Out upon thee for such a wish, child! Marry! to desire to be remembered by an old man rather than by a young, handsome——" she laughed and added slyly, "enemy. Were he not in the queen's favor thou couldst not have liberty to speak with him, and thou art foolish to let slip such opportunity for converse. The queen may repent her of his imprisonment at any time, and then thou mayst never see another to hold communion with."

"Am I always to stay here, Mrs. Shelton?" asked Francis wistfully. "Though in truth were I to be freed I would not know where to go. Still 'tis hard to be shut up within this dreary place."

"I know not, child."

"Why have I not been brought to trial?" continued the girl, "Others were tried and sentenced and met their doom, while I linger on, not knowing what my fate is to be."

"I know not," answered Mrs. Shelton again. "Question it not, girl. There are those here who have lain for years in like uncertainty, and will so wait until death releases them."

"And their lot will be mine," observed the maiden mournfully. "Happy were they who met death on the block! I am so young and so strong. 'Twill be long ere the tomb claims me. And to look forward to all those years—oh, 'tis hard, hard!" She paused for a time, and then went on pathetically: "I dreamed of the fens and the wildwood last night, mistress. Methought the breeze came fresh from the distant sea. I felt its breath upon my cheek. I heard the sound of the horns, and the bay of the hounds as they were unleashed for the chase. I mounted my palfrey, and dashed in pursuit of the dogs. I rode as ne'er I rode before. On and on! and then, as the clamor of the hounds told me the game was brought to bay, I reached for my bow, and—touched the walls of my prison. Then I awoke. It was all a dream," she ended with a sob. "All a dream, and I shall never ride in the forest again."

"There, sweetheart! think no more on it," soothed Mrs. Shelton. "Come! let us go down to the bonny laddie who, even if he be thine enemy is more real than dreams."

Francis composed herself and followed the woman into the garden where Edward Devereaux already wandered. As she answered his greeting with a slight smile the youth ventured to enter into conversation.

"Hast heard the report?" he began eagerly. "'Tis said that the Spanish have been driven back to their coasts by a storm, but are again preparing to sail for England. Oh, for a chance at them! If I could but once take a Don by the beard I would content me to stay in these walls forever."

"Say not so, Master Devereaux," said Francis. "'Tis a dreary place, and hadst thou been here for nigh two years as I have been thou wouldst not utter such things. 'Tis dreary—dreary!" She sighed heavily, and despite herself a tear rolled down her cheek.

"How now, Francis," cried Devereaux touched by her distress. "Thou with the megrims? Why, Francis, 'tis unlike thy spirit!"

"I had a dream," said Francis striving to repress her tears, "and it hath made me long for liberty." And she related it to him.

"I wonder not at thy longing," said the lad. "I too desire with all my heart to be free. And," he lowered his voice and glanced about for Mrs. Shelton but she was busied over some plants, and out of earshot, "and I intend to be soon."

"What!" cried Francis, her grief forgotten, looking at him with eagerness.

"Not so loud," cautioned Edward. "I mean to escape, Francis, and to go to Lord Howard to help fight the Spaniards."

"Oh, Edward," breathed the girl, "take me with you."

"Nay; I cannot. Thou art but a girl, and the risk would be too great. I have the freedom of this inner ward, but there still remains the outer ward and the moat, which, as thou knowest, is on all sides of the Tower, and on the south there is the Thames also. The hazard would be too great."

"Nay, nay," pleaded Francis, her soul on fire at the mere mention of escape. "Do take me."

"But what couldst thou do even were we to succeed?" demanded Devereaux. "Where couldst thou go?"

"To my father in France," replied Francis.

"Nay; but"—began Devereaux again when the girl caught his hand and held it tightly with her own.

"I will not let thee go until thou dost consent," she cried with some of her old wilfulness. "Oh, Edward, do say yes."

Devereaux looked at her thin hands, her face so pale and worn, so different from its former sauciness, and all the chivalry of his nature rose up.

"When thou dost speak so, Francis," he said gently, "I can deny thee nothing."

"And thou wilt?" cried she with shining eyes.

"Yea, Francis; but consider well the danger. If we fail it may mean death."

"We will not fail," declared the girl with positiveness. "If we do, is not death better than imprisonment? I promise that I will kill at least one Spaniard."

"I will hold thee to that vow," laughed Devereaux. "But thy woman comes, Francis. I will inform thee of the plan when I fix on one. Fare you well."

"Fare you well," returned Francis.

"Thine enemy's converse hath done thee good," commented Mrs. Shelton waggishly on their return to the upper chamber of the Bell Tower.

Francis looked at her a moment and then said with dignity:

"I had forgot that he was mine enemy, mistress. Besides, I may have been somewhat unmannerly in my treatment of Master Devereaux, and it behooves me as a gentlewoman to make other recompense for his courtesy."

"And say you so, Francis?" laughed Mrs. Shelton who considered the affair great sport. "Belike it be no unpleasant duty. But there, child! 'Tis little of entertainment thou hast, so make merry with the lad for I fear that he will not remain here long."

"I fear so too," answered Francis, and in her heart lay the unspoken wish that not only Devereaux's time but her own might be short.

The days passed and Edward Devereaux had not yet matured a scheme for their flight. June waxed and waned, and July was upon them. Then one day, when the girl had almost despaired of hearing him speak of the attempt again, Devereaux said to her in a low tone:

"Art thou willing to make the effort to-night, Francis?"

"To-night?" cried Francis thrilling at the thought. "Yea; to-night, Edward. But how?"

"Does Mrs. Shelton stay in your chamber at night?"

"Not now. Not since I recovered from mine illness."

"And is there not a flight of steps leading to the roof?"

"Yes;" replied Francis surprised. "How knew you that?"

"Easily. The alarm bell of the fortress stands on that roof, and there must of necessity be communication from the inside as well as from the outside. Besides all the other towers are so connected. Thou knowest that my lodging is the uppermost story of the Bloody Tower where tradition hath it that the two princes of York were murdered by Richard of Gloucester. I have found that between the outer wall of the Tower and the chamber there is a passage communicating with the top of the ballium wall to the west. Along that I will proceed until I reach the roof of the Bell Tower where I will make fast the rope for our descent. After we are down we must make use of our wits to pass the gate in the Byward Tower and so reach Tower wharf where friends will await us with a boat. There is no moon, and the darkness will favor the plan. There are secret passages which lead out of the Tower but these I have been unable to discover. They are known to but few and those few are incorruptible. The passage leading to my lodgings is all that I have knowledge of, and I had much ado to find that, and to obtain the rope."

"But the sentinel, Edward? There is always one stationed by the bell."

"Leave him to me, Francis," said Devereaux evasively. "Do you fear to adventure it?"

"Nay, Edward. I rather rejoice at the opportunity for action."

"Then await my coming. And to-night the die will be cast. Liberty and England, or imprisonment and death! All depends upon this throw. Do you fear, Francis?"

"No;" answered she proudly. "I am no weakling that I should fear. Dost thou not know the motto of the Staffords: A l'outrance? (To the utmost) I am a Stafford. Therefore will I dare to the utmost."

"Well said, mistress. If my courage fail me thou wilt inspire it anew. So fare you well until night."

They parted, and Francis returned to her chamber to await the coming of the darkness with what patience she could. The hours went by on leaden wings. At last the portal leading to the roof was opened, and Edward Devereaux's voice sounded in a low whisper:

"Francis!"

"I am here," answered the girl thrilled by the call.

"Then come!"

Gladly she obeyed, and ascended the short flight of steps, and soon stood beside the form of Devereaux on the roof.

"The sentinel," she whispered.

"Lies there," and Devereaux pointed to a dark figure extended at full length beside the belfry. "Mind him not. We must hasten. Here is the rope. Descend, and loose not thine hold of it until thy feet have touched ground as thou lovest life. Remember the fate of Griffin of Wales."

Francis grasped the rope and swung herself clear of the belfry. For a moment she swayed dizzily, then the rope settled, and steadying herself by means of the roughened surface of the old walls she slipped quickly to the ground. The Bell Tower consisted of only one story above the ground one so that the feat was not so difficult as it would have been from any of the other towers. Giving a tug to the rope in token that she had reached the ground in safety she waited Devereaux's coming with palpitating heart. In a few moments he was beside her.

For a second they stood silently, but no sound from the battlements above betokened that their flight had been discovered. Grasping the girl's hand Devereaux drew her quickly across the outer ward into the shadow of the Byward Tower through which was the principal entrance. This was guarded by a burly warder whom the youth could not hope to overcome by strength, so he resolved upon a strategy. With a low breathed injunction to Francis he bent over, and ran at full tilt into the man as he came toward them, hitting him, as he had foreseen, directly in the stomach and upsetting him. With a roar and a shout the guard sprang to his feet just as they darted past him. The drawbridge leading across the moat was closed, but, nothing daunted, the two leaped over the railing into the moat below.

The sentinels on the battlements of the tower heard the splash and instantly gave the alarm. The bell rang; lights flashed along the ramparts, and numerous shots were fired into the moat after the fugitives. The moat was wide and deep, and Francis whose physical vigor was undermined by her long confinement, felt her strength failing.

"Leave me, Edward," she gasped. "I can hold out no longer. Save thyself!"

"Never!" came from Devereaux valiantly, and he supported her with his arm. "Lean on me. The wharf is not far distant. Courage!"

As they neared the other side a low whistle sounded, which the lad answered in like manner. Then indistinctly the form of a man became visible on the opposite bank. Again the whistle came, and a line was thrown out to them. This Edward grasped, and they were soon towed to shore, and pulled from the water.