"Nay, Brother Droop," said the Englishman, "this custom hath its origin in the necessary precaution of our sovereign. Who knows but that poison be in this food! Have not a score of scurvy plots been laid against her life? 'Tis well to test what is meant for the use of majesty."

Droop whistled low.

"Thet's the wrinkle, eh?" he said. "I don't guess I'd be much tempted to take a job here as a taster, then! Hello!" he said. "Why, they're takin' the victuals out o' the room. What's that fer? Did they find p'ison in 'em?"

Sir Percevall did not reply. His attention had been caught by the arrival of a strangely dressed woman, apparently attended by six maids of honor.

Turning to a gentleman at his elbow:

"Can you tell me, sir," he said, "who is yonder stranger in outlandish apparel?"

Following the speaker's eyes, the gentleman stared for a few moments and then replied:

"Marry, sir, it can but be the American princess with her retinue. They say that her Majesty much affects this strange new-comer."

It was, indeed, Rebecca who, in response to an invitation brought by a page in the Queen's livery, was on the way to take supper with Elizabeth. On her arrival at the anteroom door, an attendant went in before the Queen to announce her presence; and, while awaiting admission, Rebecca gazed about her with a curiosity still unsatisfied.

"There, now," she was saying, "'twas suttenly too bad to send you off on a wild-goose chase, Miss Margaret. Ef you could hev found the man, I'd hev ben glad, though."

At that very moment, a voice close beside her made her start violently.

"Well—well! I declare! Rebecca Wise, how do you do!"

She turned and saw him of whom she was at that moment speaking, and lo! to her amazement, it was Copernicus Droop who held out his right hand.

"Copernicus Droop!" she gasped. Then, remembering her adventure of the previous day, she went on coldly, without noticing the proffered hand: "Ye seem right glad to see me now, Mr. Droop."

Droop was taken aback at her manner and at the sarcastic emphasis laid upon the word "now."

"Why—why—of course," he stammered. "I thought you was lost."

"Lost!" she cried, indignantly. "Lost! Why, you know right well I chased you up one street and down the other all the mornin' yesterday. You tried to lose me, Mr. Droop—and now you find me again, you see. Oh, yes, you must be glad to see me!"

Droop was at first all astonishment at this accusation, but in a few moments he guessed the true state of the case. Without delay he explained the exchange of clothes, and had no difficulty in persuading Rebecca that it was Francis Bacon whom she had pursued by mistake.

"Poor young man!" Rebecca exclaimed, in a low voice of contrition. "Why, he must hev took me fer a lunatic!"

Then she suddenly recollected her young attendants, and turned so as to bring them on one hand and Droop on the other.

"Young ladies," she said, primly, "this here's Mr. Copernicus Droop, from America."

With one accord the six girls dropped their eyes and courtesied low.

"Mr. Droop," Rebecca continued, as she indicated one of the girls after the other with her forefinger, "make you acquainted with Miss Clarissa, Miss Margaret, Miss Maria, Miss Gertrude, Miss Evelina, and Miss Dorothy. They've got sech tangled-up last names, I declare I can't keep 'em in my head. Mr. Droop's the same rank I am," she concluded, addressing the girls.

Droop fidgeted and bowed six awkward bows with eyes riveted to the ground. He had never been a ladies' man, and this unexpected presentation was a doubly trying ordeal.

There was a murmur of "your Highness" from the courtesying young women which convinced the abashed Yankee that he was being mocked, and this impression was deepened by the ill-suppressed giggles occasioned by the sight of his sadly rumpled hose. His confusion was complete.

"Now, tell me," said Rebecca, curiously, "whatever brought you up here? Hev ye some errand with the Queen?"

"Yes," said Droop. "My friend and me came up here to get a patent. Say," he exclaimed, brightening up with startling suddenness, "praps you know the racket—got the inside track, eh?"

"Inside track!"

"Yes. Don't you know the Patent Examiner—or Commissioner, or Lord High Thingummy that runs the Patent Office here? I hate to bother the Queen about sech things! Goodness knows, I'd never ha' thought o' troublin' President McKinley about patents!"

Rebecca shook her head.

"I'm blest ef I know the fust thing about it," she declared. "Ef you take my advice, you'll not bother Miss Elizabeth 'bout your old patents."

At this moment the page returned.

"Her Majesty awaits your Royal Highness within," he said, bowing deeply.

Droop's jaws fell apart and his eyes opened wide.

"Royal Highness!" he murmured.

"Well, I've got to go now," said Rebecca, smiling at her friend's astonishment. "But don't you go 'way fer a while yet. I'll try an' get the Queen to let you in soon. I want to talk with you 'bout lots of things."

In a moment she was gone, leaving Copernicus rooted to the floor and dumb with amazement.

Someone touched his elbow and, turning, he saw Sir Percevall, with the light of triumph on his fat face.

"Fortune's smiles have turned to mere laughter, my lad," he said, chuckling. "This American princess hath the Queen's good-will. How the fiend's name came you acquainted?"



CHAPTER XIV

THE FATE OF SIR PERCEVALL'S SUIT

In the inner chamber, Elizabeth was seated at a small table, at the opposite end of which sat Rebecca. Burleigh, Nottingham, and two or three other great lords stood near at hand, while one dish after another was brought in from the outer room by maids of honor.

Standing to the right of the Queen's chair was a dark man of foreign aspect, wearing the robes of a Doctor of Laws. In his hand was Rebecca's copy of the New York World, which he was perusing with an expression of the utmost perplexity.

"Well, Master Guido," said the Queen, "what make you of it?"

"Maesta eccellentissima—" the scholar began.

"Nay—nay. Speak good plain English, man," said the Queen. "The Lady Rebecca hath no Italian."

Messer Guido bowed and began again, speaking with a scarcely perceptible accent.

"Most Excellent Majesty, I have but begun perusal of this document. It promiseth matter for ten good years' research in the comparison of parts, interpretation of phrases, identifying customs, manners, dress, and the like."

"Nay, then," said the Queen, "with the help of the Lady Rebecca, 'twill be no weighty task, methinks. My lady, why partake you not of the pasty?" she said, turning to Rebecca. "Hath it not a very proper savor?"

"My, yes," Rebecca replied; "it's mighty good pie! Somehow, though, pie don't lay very good with me these days. Ye don't happen to have any tea, do ye?"

"Tea!"

"If I may venture—" said Guido, eagerly.

"Speak, Messer Guido."

"Why, it would appear, your Majesty, that tea is a sort of stuff for dresses—silk, belike."

"Stuff for dresses!" said Rebecca. "Stuff and nonsense! Why, tea's a drink!"

"A beverage! Then how explain you this?" the Italian cried, triumphantly. Lifting the newspaper, he read from it the following passage: "The illustration shows a charming tea-gown, a creation of Mme. Decollete."

"You see, Maesta—your Majesty—it is clear. A 'tea-gown' is shown in the drawing—a gown made of tea."

Rebecca had opened her mouth to overwhelm the poor savant with the truth when a page entered and stood before the Queen.

"Well, sirrah," said Elizabeth, "what is your message?"

"Sir Percevall Hart craves an audience, your Majesty, for himself and his American friend and client."

"Another American!" exclaimed the Queen.

"Copernicus Droop!" cried Rebecca.

"Know you Sir Percevall's friend, Lady Rebecca?" asked Elizabeth.

"Why, yes, your Majesty. He and I came over together from Peltonville. I believe he's after a patent."

"A patent? What mean you? Doth he ask for a patent of nobility—a title? Can this be the suit of the fat knight?"

"I don't know," said Rebecca. "'Tain't nothin' 'bout nobility, I'm sure, though. It's a patent on a phonograph, I b'lieve."

"Know you aught of this, my lord?" said Elizabeth, turning to Burleigh.

"Why, yes, your Majesty. I have to-day received from Sir Percevall Hart a letter written by my nephew, Francis Bacon——"

"Bacon! What! Ay—methinks we know somewhat of this same Francis," said the Queen, grimly. "A member of Parliament, is he not?"

"Even so, your Majesty," said Burleigh, somewhat crestfallen. "From this letter I learn," he continued, while Elizabeth shook her head, "that this American—a Master Dupe, I believe——"

"No—no—Droop!" cried Rebecca. "Copernicus Droop."

The baron bowed.

"That this Master Droop desires the grant of a monopoly in——"

"A monopoly!" cried Elizabeth. "What! This independent young barrister—this parliamentary meddler in opposition, forsooth! He craveth a monopoly? God's death! A monopoly in all the impudence in this our realm is of a surety this fellow's right! We grant it—we grant it. Let the papers be drawn forthwith!"

The baron bent before the storm and, bowing, remained silent. Rebecca, however, could scarce see the justice of the Queen's position.

"Well, but look here, your Majesty," she said. "'Tain't Mr. Bacon as wants this patent; it's Mr. Droop. Mr. Bacon only gave him a letter to Mr. Burleigh here."

Astonishment was depicted in every face save in that of the Queen, whose little eyes were now turned upon her sister sovereign in anger.

"Harkye, Lady Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Is it the custom to take the Queen to task in your realm?"

Rebecca's reply came pat. The type was prepared beforehand, and she answered now with a clear conscience.

"Why, of course. We talk jest as we feel like to all the queens there is in my country."

The equivocation in this reply must have struck the Queen, for she said, without taking her eyes from Rebecca's face:

"And, prithee, Lady Rebecca, how many queens be there in America? We begin to doubt if royalty be known there."

Again Messer Guido evinced signs of an anxious desire to speak, and Rebecca shrewdly took advantage of this at once.

"Messer Guido can tell you all 'bout that, I guess," she said.

Elizabeth turned her eyes to the savant.

"What knowledge have you of this, learned doctor?" she asked, coldly.

"Why, your Majesty," said Guido, with delighted zeal, "the case is plain. Will your Majesty but look at this drawing on one of the inner pages of the printed document brought by the Lady Rebecca? Behold the effigy of a powder canister, with the words 'Royal Baking Powder' thereon. This would appear evidence that in America gunpowder is known and is used by the sovereigns of the various tribes. Here again we see 'The Royal Corset,' and there 'Crown Shirts.' Can it be doubted that the Americans have royal governors?"

The Queen's face cleared a little at this, and Guido proceeded with increased animation:

"Behold further upon the front page, your Majesty, the effigy of a man wearing a round crown with a peak or projecting shelf over the eyes. Under this we read the legend 'The Czar of the Tenderloin.' Now, your Majesty will remember that the ruler of Muscovy is termed the Czar. The Tenderloin signifieth, doubtless, some order, akin, perchance, to the Garter."

"This hath a plausible bent, Messer Guido," said Elizabeth, with more good-nature. "Lady Rebecca, can you better explain this matter of the Czar?"

"No, indeed," Rebecca replied, with perfect truth. "Mister Guido must have a fine mind to understand things like that!"

"In sooth, good Messer Guido," said Elizabeth, with a smile, "your research and power of logic do you great credit. We doubt not to learn more of these new empires from your learned pains than ever from Raleigh, Drake, and the other travellers whose dull wits go but to the surface of things. But, Lord warrant us!" she continued, "here standeth our page, having as yet no answer. Go, sirrah, and bid Sir Percevall and this great American to our presence straight."

Then, turning again to Guido, she said:

"Messer Guido, we enjoin it upon your learning that you do make a note of the petition of this American, as well as of those things which he may answer in explanation of his design."

With a bow, Guido stepped to one side and, carefully folding the newspaper, drew from his bosom his tablets and prepared to obey.

All eyes turned curiously to the door as it opened to admit the two suitors, who were followed by the page. Sir Percevall, with plumed hat in one hand and sword hilt in the other, advanced ponderously, bowing low at every other step. Droop hurriedly deposited his two boxes upon the floor and followed his monitor, closely imitating his every step and gesture. Having no sword, he thought it best to put his left hand into his bosom, an attitude which he recollected in a picture of Daniel Webster.

The fat knight was about to kneel to kiss the royal hand, but Elizabeth, smiling, detained him.

"Nay, nay!" she said. "You, Sir Percevall, have paid your debt of homage in advance for a twelvemonth. He who kisses the dust at our feet hath knelt for ten." Then, turning to Droop, who was down on both knees, with his hand still in his breast: "What now!" she exclaimed. "Hath your hand suffered some mischance, Sir American, that you hide it in your bosom?"

"Not a mite—not a mite!" Droop stuttered, quickly extending the member in question. "Nay, your Majesty—in sooth, no—my hand beeth all right!"

"We learn from the Lord Treasurer," said Elizabeth, addressing Sir Percevall, "that your petition hath reference to a monopoly. Know you not, Sir Knight, that these be parlous days for making of new monopolies? Our subjects murmur, and 'tis said that we have already been too generous with these great gifts. Have you considered of this?"

"My liege," said Sir Percevall, "these things have we considered. Nor would we tempt this awful Presence with petitions looking to tax further the public patience. But, please your Majesty, Master Droop, my client here," indicating the still kneeling man with a sweeping gesture, "hath brought into being an instrument, or rather two instruments, of marvellous fashion and of powers strange. Of these your Majesty's subjects have had hitherto no knowledge, and it is in the making and selling of these within this realm that we do here crave a right of monopoly under the Great Seal."

"Excuse me, forsooth, your Majesty," Droop broke in, "but would thou mind if I get up, my liege?"

"Nay, rise, rise, Master Droop!" exclaimed the Queen, smothering a laugh. "We find matter for favor in your sponsor's speech. Can you more fully state the nature of this petition?"

"Yes, ma'am—your Majesty," said Droop, rising and dusting off his knees. "I am the inventor of a couple of things, forsooth, that are away ahead of the age. Marry, yes! I call 'em a bicycle and a phonograph."

"Well, did you ever!" murmured Rebecca, amazed at this impudent claim to invention.

Messer Guido paused in his writing and began to unfold his precious American newspaper, while Droop went on, encouraged by the attentive curiosity which he had evidently excited in the Queen.

"Now, the bicycle—or the bike, fer short—is a kind of a wagon or vehycle, you wot. When you mount on it, you can trundle yerself along like all possessed——"

"Gramercy!" broke in the Queen, in a tone of irritation. "What have we here! We must have plain English, Master Droop. American idioms are unknown to us."

As Droop opened his mouth to reply, Guido stepped forward with a great rustling of paper.

"May it please your Gracious Majesty—" he panted, eagerly.

"Speak, Messer Guido."

"I would fain question this gentleman, your Majesty, touching certain things contained herein." He shook the paper at arm's length and glared at Droop, who returned the look with a calm eye.

"You may proceed, sir," said Elizabeth.

"Why, Master Droop, you that are the inventor of this same 'bicycle,' how explain you this?"

He thrust the paper under Droop's nose, pointing to an advertisement therein.

"Here," he continued, "here have we a picture bearing the legend, 'Baltimore Bicycle—Buy No Other'—" He paused, but before Copernicus could speak he went on breathlessly: "And look on this, Master Droop—see here—here! Another drawing, this time with the legend, 'Edison's Phonographs.' How comes it that you have invented these things? Can you invent on this 21st day of May, in the year of our Lord 1598, what was here set forth as early as—as—" he turned the paper back to the first page, "as early as April—" he stopped, turned pale, and choked. Droop looked mildly triumphant.

"Well—well!" cried Elizabeth, "hast lost thy voice, man?"

"My liege," murmured the bewildered savant, "the date—this document——"

"Is dated in 1898," said Droop, solemnly. "This here bike and phonograph won't be invented by anyone else for three hundred years yet."

Elizabeth frowned angrily and grasped the arms of her chair in an access of wrath which, after a pause, found vent in a torrent of words:

"Now, by God's death, my masters, you will find it ill jesting in this presence! What in the fiend's name! Think ye, Elizabeth of England may be tricked and cozened—made game of by a scurvy Italian bookworm and a witless——"

The adjectives and expletives which followed may not be reported here. As the storm of words progressed, growing more violent in its continuance, Droop stood open-mouthed, not comprehending the cause of this tirade. Of the others, but one preserved his wits at this moment of danger.

Sir Percevall, well aware that the Queen's fury, unless checked, would produce his and his client's ruin, determined to divert this flood of emotion into a new channel. With the insight of genius, the fat knight realized that only a woman's curiosity could avert a queen's rage, and with what speed he could he stumbled backward to where Droop had left his exhibits. He lifted the box containing the phonograph and, taking the instrument out, held it on the palm of his huge left hand and bent his eyes upon it in humble and resigned contemplation.

The quick roving eye of the angry Queen caught sight of this queer assemblage of cogs, levers, and cylinder, and for the first time her too-ready tongue tripped. She looked away and recovered herself to the end of the sentence. She could not resist another look, however, and this time her words came more slowly. She paused—wavered—and then fixed her gaze in silence upon the enigmatical device. There was a unanimous smothered sigh as the bystanders recognized their good fortune. Guido, frightened half to death, slipped unobserved out of a side door, and was never seen at Greenwich again. Nor has that fatal newspaper been heard from since.

"What may that be, Sir Percevall?" the Queen inquired at length, settling back in her chair as comfortably as her ruff would permit.

"This, my liege, is the phonograph," said the knight, straightening himself proudly.

"An my Greek be not at fault," said the Queen, "this name should purport a writer of sound."

Sir Percevall's face fell. He was no Greek scholar, and this query pushed him hard. Fortunately for him, Elizabeth turned to Droop as she concluded her sentence.

"Hath your invention this intent, Master Droop?" she said.

"Verily, I guess you've hit it—I wot that's right!" stammered the still frightened man.

A very audible murmur of admiration passed from one to another of the assembled courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. These expressions reached the ears of the Queen, for whom they were indeed intended, and the consciousness of her acumen restored Elizabeth entirely to good-humor.

"The conceit is very novel, is it not, my lord?" she said, turning to Baron Burleigh.

"Novel, indeed, and passing marvellous if achieved, your Majesty," was the suave reply.

"How write you sounds with this device, Master Droop?" she asked.

"Why, thusly, ma'am—your Majesty," said Droop, with renewed courage. "One speaketh, you wot—talketh-like into this hole—this aperture." He turned and pointed to the mouth-piece of the instrument, which was still in Sir Percevall's hands. "Hevin' done this, you wot, this little pin-like pricketh or scratcheth the wax, an' the next time you go over the thing, there you are!"

Conscious of the lameness of this explanation, Droop hurried on, hoping to forestall further questions.

"Let me show ye, my liege, how she works, in sooth," he said, taking the phonograph from the knight. Looking all about, he could see nothing at hand whereon to conveniently rest the device.

"Marry, you wouldn't mind ef I was to set this right here on your table, would ye, my liege?" he asked.

Permission was graciously accorded, and, depositing the phonograph, Droop hurried back to get his records. Holding a wax cylinder in one hand, he proceeded.

"Now, your Majesty can graciously gaze on this wax cylinder," he said. "On here we hev scrawled—written—a tune played by a cornet. It is 'Home, Sweet Home.' Ye've heerd it, no doubt?"

"Nay, the title is not familiar," said the Queen, looking about her. With one accord, the courtiers shook their heads in corroboration.

"Is that so? Well, well! Why, every boy and gal in America knows that tune well!" said Droop.

He adjusted the cylinder and a small brass megaphone, and, having wound the motor, pressed the starting-button. Almost at once a stentorian voice rang through the apartment:

"Home, Sweet Home—Cornet Solo—By Signor Paolo Morituri—Edison Record."

The sudden voice, issuing from the dead revolving cylinder, was so unexpected and startling that several of the ladies screamed and at least one gentleman pensioner put his hand to his sword-hilt. Elizabeth herself started bolt upright and turned pale under her rouge as she clutched the arms of her chair. Before she could express her feelings the cornet solo began, and the entire audience gradually resumed its wonted serenity before the close of the air.

"Marvellous beyond telling!" exclaimed Elizabeth, in delight. "Why, this contrivance of yours, Master Droop, shall make your name and fortune throughout our realm. Have you many such ingenious gentlemen in your kingdom, Lady Rebecca?"

"Oh, dear me, yes!" said Rebecca, somewhat contemptuously. "Copernicus Droop ain't nobody in America."

Droop glanced reproachfully at his compatriot, but concluded not to give expression to his feelings. Accordingly, he very quickly substituted another cylinder, and turned again to the Queen.

"Now, your Majesty," said he, "here's a comic monologue. I tell you, verily, it's a side-splitter!"

"What may a side-splitter be, Master Droop?"

"Why, in sooth, somethin' almighty funny, you know—make a feller laugh, you wot."

Elizabeth nodded and, with a smile of anticipation, which was copied by all present, prepared to be amused.

Alas! The monologue was an account of how a farmer got the best of a bunco steerer in New York City, and was delivered in the esoteric dialect of the Bowery. It was not long before willing smiles gave place to long-drawn faces of comic bewilderment, and, although Copernicus set his best example by artificial grins and pretended inward laughter, he could evoke naught but silence and bored looks.

"Marry, sir," said Elizabeth, when the monologue was at an end, "this needs be some speech of an American empire other than that you come from. Could you make aught of it, Lady Rebecca?"

"Nothin' on airth!" was the reply. "Only a word now an' then about a farmer—an' somethin' about hayseed."

"Now, here's a reg'lar bird!" said Droop, hastily, as he put in a new cylinder.

"Can you thus record e'en the voices of fowls?" said the Queen, with renewed interest.

Hopeless of explaining, Droop bowed and touched the starting-button. The announcement came at once.

"Liberty Bells March—Edison Record," and after a few preliminary flourishes, a large brass band could be heard in full career.

This proved far more pleasing to the Queen and her suite.

"So God mend us, a merry tune and full of harmony!" said the Queen.

"But that ain't all, your Majesty," said Droop. "Here's a blank cylinder, now." He adjusted it as he spoke and unceremoniously pushed the instrument close to the Queen. "Here," he said, "jest you talk anythin' you want to in there and you'll see suthin' funny, I'll bet ye!" He was thoroughly warmed to his work now, and the little court etiquette which he had acquired dropped from him entirely.

The Queen's eager interest had been so aroused that she was unconscious of his too familiar manner. Leaning over the phonograph as Droop started the motor, she looked about her and said, with a titter: "What shall we say? Weighty words should grace so great an occasion, my lords."

"Oh, say the Declaration of Independence or the 'Charge of the Light Brigade'!" Droop exclaimed. "Any o' them things in the school-books!"

Elizabeth saw that the empty cylinder was passing uselessly and wasted no time in discussion, but began to declaim some verses of Horace.

"M—m—m—" exclaimed Droop, doubtfully. "I don't know as this phonograph will work on Latin an' Greek!"

The Queen completed her quotation and, sitting back again in her chair:

"Now, Master Droop, we have done our part," she said.

Droop readjusted the repeating diaphragm and started the motor once more. There were two or three squeaks and then an affected little chuckle.

"What shall we say?" it began. "Weighty words should grace so great an occasion, my lords."

Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically to hear her unstudied phrase repeated, and then, with a look of awe, listened to the repetition of the verses she had recited.

"Can any voice be so repeated?" she asked, seriously, when this record was completed.

"Anyone ye please—any ye please!" said the delighted promoter, visions of uncounted wealth dancing in his head. "Now, here's a few words was spoken on a cylinder jest two or three weeks ago by Miss Wise," he continued, hunting through his stock of records. "Ah, here it is! It's all 'bout Mister Bacon—I daresay you know him." The Queen looked a little stern at this. "Tells all 'bout him, I believe. I ferget jest what it said, but we can soon see."

The cylinder was that before which Phoebe had read an extract from the volume on Bacon's supposed parentage and his writings while she was at the North Pole. Little did Droop conceive what a train he was unconsciously lighting as he adjusted the cylinder in place. As he said, he had forgotten the exact purport of the extract in question, but, even had he recollected it, he would probably have so little understood its terrific import that his course would have been the same. Ignorant of his danger, he pushed the starting-button and looked pleasantly at the Queen, whose dislike of anything having to do with Francis Bacon had already brought a frown to her face.

All too exactly the fateful mechanism ground out the very words and voice of Phoebe:

"It is thus made clear from the indubitable evidence of the plays themselves, that Francis Bacon wrote the immortal works falsely ascribed to William Shakespeare, and that the gigantic genius of this man was the result of the possession of royal blood. In this unacknowledged son of Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England, was made manifest to all countries and for all centuries the glorious powers inherent in the regal blood of England."

As the fearful meaning of these words was developed by the machine, amazement gave place to consternation in those present and consternation to abject terror. Each fear-palsied courtier looked with pale face to right and left as though to seek escape. The fat knight, hitherto all complacency, listening to this brazen traducer of the Queen's virgin honor, seemed to shrink within himself, and his very clothing hung loose upon him.

Droop and Rebecca, ignorant of the true bearing of the spoken words, gazed in amazement from one to another until, glancing at the Queen, their eyes remained fixed and fascinated.

The unthinkable insult implied in the words repeated was trebled in force by being spoken thus publicly and in calm accents to her very face. She—the daughter of Henry the Eighth; she—Elizabeth of England—the Virgin Queen—to be thus coolly proclaimed the mother of this upstart barrister!

As a cyclone approaches, silent and terrific, visible only in the swift swirling changes of a livid and blackened sky, so the fatal passion in that imperial bosom was known at first only in the gleaming of her black eyes beneath contorted brows and the spasmodic changes that swept over the pale red-painted face.

The danger thus portended was clear even to the bewildered Droop, and, before the instrument had said its say, he began to slip very quietly toward the door.

As the speech ended, Elizabeth emitted a growl that grew into a shriek of fury, and, with her hair actually rising on her head, she threw herself bodily upon the offending phonograph.

In her two hands she raised the instrument above her, and with a maniac's force hurled it full at the head of Copernicus Droop.

Instinctively he dodged, and the mass of wood and steel crashed against the door of the chamber, bursting it open and causing the two guards without to fall back.

Droop saw his chance and took it. Turning, with a yell he dashed past the guards and across the antechamber to the main entrance-hall. The Queen, choked with passion, could only gasp and point her hand frantically after the fleeing man, but at once her gentlemen, drawing their swords, rushed in a body from the room with cries of "Treason—treason! Stop him! Catch him!"

Down the main hallway and out into the silent court-yard Droop fled on the wings of fear, pursued by a shouting throng, growing every moment larger.

As he emerged into the yard a sentry tried to stop him, but, with a single side spring, the Yankee eluded this danger and flung himself upon his bicycle, which he found leaning against the palace wall.

"Close the gates! Trap him!" was the cry, and the ponderous iron gates swung together with a clang. But just one second before they closed, the narrow bicycle, with its terror-stricken burden, slipped through into the street beyond and turned sharply to the west, gaining speed every instant. Droop had escaped for the moment, and now bent every effort upon reaching the Panchronicon in safety.

Then, as the tumult of futile chase faded into silence behind the straining fugitive, there might have been seen whirling through the ancient streets of London a weird and wondrous vision.

Perched on a whirl of spokes gleaming in the moonlight, a lean black figure in rumpled hose, with flying cloak, slipped ghostlike through the narrow streets at incredible speed. Many a footpad or belated townsman, warned by the mystic tinkle of a spectral bell, had turned with a start, to faint or run at sight of this uncanny traveller.

His hat was gone and his close-cropped head bent low over the handle-bars. The skin-tight stockings had split from thigh to heel, mud flew from the tires, beplastering the luckless figure from nape to waist, and still, without pause, he pushed onward, ever onward, for London Bridge, for Southwark, and for safety. The way was tortuous, dark and unfamiliar, but it was for life or death, and Copernicus Droop was game.



CHAPTER XV

HOW REBECCA RETURNED TO NEWINGTON

Within the palace all was confusion and dismay. Only a very few knew the cause of this riot which had burst so suddenly upon the wonted peace of the place, and those few never in all their lives gave utterance to what they had learned.

Within the presence chamber Elizabeth lay on the floor in a swoon, surrounded by her women only. Among these was Rebecca, whose one thought was now to devise some plan for overtaking Droop. From the window she had witnessed his flight, and she had guessed his destination. She felt sure that if Droop reached the Panchronicon alone, he would depart alone, and then what was to become of Phoebe and herself?

Just as the Queen's eyes were opening and her face began to show a return of her passion with recollection of its cause, Rebecca had an inspiration, and with the promptitude of a desperate resolution, she acted upon it.

"Look a-here, your Majesty!" she said, vigorously, "let me speak alone with you a minute and I'll save you a lot of trouble. I know where that man keeps more of them machines."

This was a new idea to Elizabeth, who had destroyed, as she supposed, the only existing specimen of the malignant instrument.

With a gesture she sent her attendants to the opposite end of the room.

"Now speak, woman! What would you counsel?" she said.

"Why, this," said Rebecca, hurriedly. "You don't want any more o' them things talkin' all over London, I'm sure."

A groan that was half a growl broke from the sorely tried sovereign.

"Of course you don't. Well—I told you him and I come from America together. I know where he keeps all his phonograph things, and I know how to get there. But you must be quick or else he'll get there fust and take 'em away."

"You speak truly, Lady Rebecca," said the Queen. "How would you go—by what conveyance? Will you have horses—men-at-arms?"

"No, indeed!" was the reply. "Jest let me hev a swift boat, with plenty o' men to row it, so's to go real fast. Then I'll want a carryall or a buggy in Southwark——"

"A carryall—a buggy!" Elizabeth broke in. "What may these be?"

"Oh, any kind of a carriage, you know, 'cause I'll hev to ride some distance into the country."

"But why such haste?" asked the Queen. "Had this American a horse?"

"He had a bicycle an' that's wuss," said Rebecca. "But ef I can start right away and take a short cut by the river while he finds his way through all them dirty, dark streets, I'll get there fust an' get the rest of his phonographs."

"Your wit is nimble and methinks most sound," said the Queen, decisively. Then, turning to the group of ladies, she continued:

"Send us our chamberlain, my Lady Temple, and delay not, we charge you!"

In ten minutes Rebecca found herself once more upon the dark, still river, watching the slippery writhings of the moonbeams' path. She was alone, save for the ten stalwart rowers and two officers; but in one hand was her faithful umbrella, while in the other she felt the welcome weight of her precious satchel.

The barge cut its way swiftly up the river in silence save for the occasional exclamations of the officers urging the willing oarsmen to their utmost speed.

Far ahead to the right the huge bulk of the Tower of London loomed in clumsy power against the deep dark blue of the moonlit sky. Rebecca knew that London Bridge lay not far beyond that landmark, although it was as yet invisible. For London Bridge she was bound, and it seemed to her impatience that the lumbering vessel would never reach that goal.

She stood up and strained her eyes through the darkness, trying to see the laboring forms of the rowers in the shadow of the boat's side, but only the creak of the thole-pins and the steady recurrent splash and tinkle from the dripping oars told of their labor.

"Air ye goin' as fast as ye can?" she called. "Mr. Droop'll get there fust ef ye ain't real spry."

"If spry be active, mistress," said a voice from the darkness aft, "then should you find naught here amiss. Right lusty workers, these, I promise you! Roundly, men, and a shilling each if we do win the race!"

"Ay—ay, sir!" came the willing response, and Rebecca, satisfied that they could do no more, seated herself again, to wait as best she might.

At length, to her great delight, there arose from the darkness ahead an uneven line of denser black, and at a warning from one of the officers the boat proceeded more cautiously. Rebecca's heart beat high as they passed under one of the low stone arches of the famous bridge and their strokes resounded in ringing echoes from every side.

Having passed to the upper side of the bridge, the boat was headed for the south shore, and in a few moments Rebecca saw that they had reached the side of a wooden wharf which stood a little higher than their deck. One of the officers leaped ashore with the end of a rope in his hand, and quickly secured the vessel. As he did so a faint light was seen proceeding toward them, and they heard the steps of a half dozen men advancing on the sounding planks. It was the watch, and the light shone from a primitive lantern with sides of horn scraped thin.

"Who goes there?" cried a gruff voice.

"The Queen's barge—in the service of her Majesty," was the reply.

The watchman who carried the lantern satisfied himself that this account was correct, and then asked if he could be of service.

"Tell me, fellow," said he who had landed, "hast seen one pass the bridge to-night astride of two wheels, one before the other, riding post-haste?"

There was a long pause as the watchman sought to comprehend this extraordinary question.

"Come—come!" cried the officer, who had remained on the boat. "Canst not say yes or no, man?"

"Ay, can I, master!" was the reply. "But you had as well ask had I seen a witch riding across the moon on a broomstick. We have no been asleep to dream of flying wheels."

"Well—well!" said he who had landed. "Go you now straight and stand at the bridge head. We shall follow anon."

The watch moved slowly away and Rebecca was helped ashore by the last speaker.

"Our speed hath brought us hither in advance, my lady," he said. "Now shall we doubtless come in before the fugitive."

"Well, I hope so!" said Rebecca. Then, with a smothered cry: "Oh, Land o' Goshen! I've dropped my umbrella!"

They stooped together and groped about on the wharf in silence for a few moments. The landing was encumbered with lumber and stones for building, and, as the moon was just then covered by a thick cloud, the search was difficult.

"I declare, ain't this provokin'!" Rebecca cried, at length.

"These beams and blocks impede us," said the officer. "We must have light, perforce. Ho there! The watch, ho! Bring your lanthorn!"

"Why, 'tain't worth while to trouble the watchman," said Rebecca. "I'll jest strike a light myself."

She fumbled in her satchel and found a card of old-fashioned silent country matches, well tipped with odorous sulphur. The officer at her side saw nothing of her movements, and his first knowledge of her intention was the sudden and mysterious appearance of a bluish flame close beside him and the tingle of burning brimstone in his nostrils.

With a wild yell, he leaped into the air and then, half crazed by fear, tumbled into the boat and cut the mooring-rope with his sword.

"Cast off—cast off!" he screamed. "Give way, lads, in God's name! A witch—a witch! Cast off!"

A gentle breeze off the shore carried the sulphurous fumes directly over the boat, and these, together with their officer's terror-stricken tones and the sight of that uncanny, sourceless light, struck the crew with panic. Fiercely and in sad confusion did they push and pull with boat-hook and oar to escape from that unhallowed vicinity, and, even after they were well out in the stream, it was with the frenzy of superstitious horror that they bent their stout backs to their oars and glided swiftly down stream toward Greenwich.

As for Rebecca—comprehending nothing of the cause of this commotion at first—she stood with open mouth, immovable as a statue, watching the departure of her escort until the flame reached her fingers. Then, with a little shriek of pain, she flicked the burnt wood into the river.

"Well, if I ever!" she exclaimed. "I'm blest ef I don't b'lieve those ninnies was scared at a match!"

Shaking her head, she broke a second match from her card, struck it, and when it burned clear, stooped to seek her umbrella. It was lying between two beams almost at her feet, and she grasped it thankfully just as her light was blown out by the breeze.

Then, with groping feet, she made her way carefully toward the inshore end of the wharf, and soon found herself in the streets of Southwark, between London Bridge and the pillory. From this point she knew her way to the grove where the Panchronicon had landed, and thither she now turned a resolute face, walking as swiftly as she dared by the light of the now unobscured moon.

"If Copernicus Droop ketches up with me," she muttered, "I'll make him stop ef I hev to poke my umbrella in his spokes."



CHAPTER XVI

HOW SIR GUY KEPT HIS TRYST

For one hour before sunset of that same day Phoebe had been patiently waiting alone behind the east wall of the inn garden. As she had expected, her step-mother had accompanied her father to London that afternoon, and she found herself free for the time of their watchfulness. She did not know that this apparent carelessness was based upon knowledge of another surveillance more strict and secret, and therefore more effective than their own.

The shadow of the wall within which she was standing lengthened more and more rapidly, until, as the sun touched the western horizon, the whole countryside to the east was obscured.

Phoebe moved out into the middle of the road which ran parallel to the garden wall and looked longingly toward the north. A few rods away, the road curved to the right between apple-trees whose blossoms gleamed more pink with the touch of the setting sun.

"Nothing—no one yet!" she murmured. "Oh, Guy, if not for love, could you not haste for life!"

As though in answer to her exclamation, there came to her ears a faint tapping of horses' hoofs, and a few moments later three horsemen turned the corner and bore down upon her.

One glance was enough to show her that Guy was not one of the group, and Phoebe leaped back into the shadow of the wall. She felt that she must not be seen watching here alone by anyone. As she stood beneath the fringe of trees that stood outside of the garden wall, she looked about for means of better concealment, and quickly noticed a narrow slit in the high brick enclosure, just wide enough for a man to enter. It had been barred with iron, but two of the bars had fallen from their sockets, leaving an aperture which looked large enough to admit a slender girl.

Phoebe felt instinctively that the approaching riders were unfriendly in their purpose and, without pausing to weigh reasons, she quickly scrambled through this accidental passage, not without tearing her dress.

She found herself within the garden and not far from the very seat where she had hidden from Will Shakespeare. How different her situation now, she thought. Not diffidence, but fear, was now her motive—fear for the man she loved and whom she alone could save.

While she listened there, half choked by the beating of her own heart, she heard the three cavaliers beyond the wall. Their horses were walking now, and the three conversed together in easily audible tones.

"My life on it, Will," said one, "'twas here the wench took cover!"

"Thine eyes are dusty, Jack," replied a deep voice. "'Twas farther on, was it not, Harry?"

The horses stopped.

"Ay—you are i' the right, Will," was the answer. "By the same token, how could the lass be here and we not see her? There's naught to hide a cat withal."

"Nay—nay!" said Will. "Count upon it, Jack, the maid fled beyond the turn yonder. Come on, lads!"

"I'll not stir hence!" said Jack, obstinately. "Who finds the girl, catches the traitor, too. Go you two farther, an ye will. Jack Bartley seeks here."

"Let it be e'en so, Will," said Harry, the third speaker. "Dismount we here, you and me. Jack shall tie the nags to yon tree and seek where he will. Do you and I creep onward afoot. So shall the maid, hearing no footfall, be caught unaware."

"Have it so!" said Will.

Phoebe heard the three dismount and, trembling with apprehension, listened anxiously for knowledge of what she dared not seek to see.

She heard the slow walk of the three horses, shortly interrupted, and she knew that they were being tethered. Then there was a murmur of voices and silence.

This was the most agonizing moment of that eventful night for Phoebe. Strain her ears as she might, naught could she hear but the shake of a bridle, the stamp of an occasional hoof, and the cropping of grass. The next few seconds seemed an hour of miserable uncertainty and suspense. She knew now that she was watched, that perhaps her plans were fully known, and all hope for her lover seemed past. She had called him hither and he would walk alone and unaided into the arms of these three mercenaries.

She clasped her hands and looked desperately about her as though for inspiration. To the right an open sward led the eye to the out-buildings surrounding the inn. To the left a dense thicket of trees and bushes shut in the view.

Suddenly she started violently. Her ear had caught the snapping of a twig close at hand, beyond the concealing wall. At the next moment she saw a stealthy hand slip past the opening by which she had entered, and the top of a man's hat appeared.

Like a rabbit that runs to cover, she turned noiselessly and dashed into the friendly thicket. Here she stopped with her hand on her heart and glanced wildly about her. Well she knew that her concealment here could be but momentary. Where next could she find shelter?

A heap of refuse, stones and dirt, leaves and sticks, was heaped against that portion of the wall, and at sight of this a desperate plan crossed her mind.

"'Tis that or nothing!" she whispered, and, still under cover of the shrubbery, she hurried toward the rubbish heap.

In the meantime, Jack, whose quick eye had descried that ancient opening in the wall, perceived by neither of his companions, was standing just within the wall gazing about for some clue to his prey's location.

Phoebe leaped upon the refuse heap and scrambled to the top. To her dismay, there was a great crashing of dead wood as she sank nearly to her knees in the accumulated rubbish.

Jack uttered a loud exclamation of triumph and leaped toward the thicket. Poor Phoebe heard his cry, and for an instant all seemed hopeless. But hers was a brave young soul, and, far from fainting in her despair, a new vigor possessed her.

Grasping the limb of a tree beside her, she drew herself up until, with one foot she found a firm rest on the top of the wall. Then, forgetting her tender hands and limbs, straining, gripping, and scrambling, she knew not how, she flung herself over the wall and fell in a bruised and ragged heap on the grass beyond.

When her pursuer reached the thicket, he was confounded to find no one in sight.

Phoebe lay for one moment faint and relaxed upon the ground. The landscape turned to swimming silhouettes before her eyes, and all sounds were momentarily stilled. Then life came surging back in a welcome tide and she rose unsteadily to her feet. She walked as quickly as she could to where the three horses stood loosely tied by their bridles to a tree. At any moment the man she feared might appear again at the opening in the wall.

She untied all three horses and, choosing a powerful gray for her own, she slipped his bridle over her arm so as to leave both hands free. Then, bringing together the bridles of the other two, she tied them together in a double knot, then doubled that, and struck the two animals sharply with the bridle of the gray. Naturally they started off in different directions, and, pulling at their bridles, dragged them into harder knots than her weak fingers could have tied.

She laughed in the triumph of her ingenuity and scrambled with foot and knee and hand into place astride of the remaining steed. Thus in the seclusion of the pasture had she often ridden her mare Nancy home to the barn.

There was a shout of anger and amazement from the road, and she saw the two men who had elected to walk farther on running toward her.

Turning her steed, she slapped his neck with the bridle and chopped at his flanks with the stirrups as best she could. The horse broke into an easy canter, and for the moment she was free.

Unfortunately, Phoebe found herself virtually without means for urging her steed to his best pace. Accustomed as he was to the efficient severity of a man's spurred heel, he paid little attention to her gentle, though urgent, voice, and even the stirrups were hardly available substitutes for spurs, since her feet could not reach them and she could only kick them flapping back against the horse's sides.

Her one chance was that she might meet Sir Guy in time, and she could only pray that the knots in the bridles of the remaining horses would long defy every effort to release them. As she turned the curve among the apple-trees, she looked back and saw that the horses had been caught and that all three men were frantically tugging and picking with fingers and teeth at those obstinate knots.

Phoebe drew up for a moment a few yards beyond the curve and broke off a long, slender switch from an overhanging bough. Then, urging the horse forward again, she picked off the small branches until at length she had produced a smooth, pliant switch, far more effective than bridle or stirrup. By the help of this new whip, she made a little better speed, but well she knew that her capture was only a matter of time unless she could find her lover.

Great was her joy, therefore, when she turned the next curve in the road; for, straight ahead, not twenty rods away, she saw Sir Guy approaching at a canter, leading a second horse.

By this time the twilight was deepening, and the young cavalier gazed in astonishment upon the ragged girl riding toward him astride, making silent gestures of welcome and warning. Not until he was within twenty yards of her did Sir Guy recognize his sweetheart.

"Mary!" he cried.

Together they reined in their horses, and instantly Phoebe slipped to the ground.

"Quick, Guy—quick!" she exclaimed. "Help me to mount yon saddle. Come—come!"

Leaping at once from his horse, Sir Guy lifted Phoebe to the back of the beast he had been leading, which was provided with a side-saddle, the stirrup of which carried a spur. Stopping only to kiss her hand, he mounted his own steed, turned about, and followed Phoebe, who had already set off at her best speed. Even as they started, they heard a shout behind them, and Phoebe knew that the pursuit had begun in earnest.

"What is it—who are they whom you flee?" asked the young knight, as he came to Phoebe's side.

"Men seeking thee, Guy—for reward! There is a price on thy head, dear. For high treason! Oh, may God aid us this night!"

"High treason!" he exclaimed. Then, after a pause, he continued, in a stern voice:

"How many be they?"

"Two."

Sir Guy laughed in evident relief.

"But two! By my troth, why should we fear them, sweetheart?" he said. "An I be not a match for four of these scurvy rascals, call me not knight!"

"Alas—alas!" cried Phoebe, in alarm, as she saw Sir Guy slacken his pace. "Stay not to fight, Guy. Urge on—urge on! The whole countryside is awake. How, then, canst thou better thee by fighting two? Nay, on—on!" and she spurred again, beckoning him after with an imperious hand.

He yielded to her reasoning, and soon reached her side again.

"We must to London Bridge, Guy," Phoebe said. "Know you a way back thither?"

"Wherefore to London, sweet?" asked Guy. "Were we not safer far afield? Why seek the shadow of the Tower?"

"One way is left thee," said she, with intense earnestness. "A way that is known to me alone. Thereby only canst thou escape. Oh, trust me—trust me, dear heart! Only I can guide thee to safety and to freedom!"

"On, my Mary!" he cried, gayly. "Lead on! Thou art my star!"

For the moment both forgot the danger behind them. The intoxication of an ideal and self-forgetting trust—a merger of all else in tenderness—flooded their souls and passed back and forth between them in their mutual glances.

Then came that pursuing shout again, much nearer than before, and with a shock the two lovers remembered their true plight.

Sir Guy reined in his steed.

"Halt—halt, Mary!" he commanded. "We must conceal us here in this dell till that these fellows pass us. Then back to London by the way we came. There is no other road."

Obedient now in her turn, Phoebe drew rein and followed her lover up the bed of a small stream which crossed the road at this point. Behind a curtain of trees they waited, and ere long saw their two pursuers dart past them and disappear in a cloud of dust down the road.

"They will stop at the next dwelling to ask news of us, and thus learn of our evasion," said Guy. "The chase has but begun. Come, sweet, let us hasten southward again."

Darkness had now begun to fall in earnest, and as the two fugitives passed the Peacock Inn, no one saw them.

They were soon near enough to the city gate to find many houses on either hand, and Sir Guy deemed it wiser to move at a reasonable pace, for fear of attracting suspicion in a neighborhood already aroused by rumors of the man-hunt which had begun. They could count upon the obscurity to conceal their identity.

They had not proceeded far beyond the inn when they met a party of travellers on horseback, one of whom uttered a pleasant "Good-even!"

"Good-even!" said Phoebe, thinking only of due courtesy.

"What the good jere!" cried a voice from the rear of the group. "What dost thou here, Poll?"

"My father!" exclaimed Phoebe, in terror.

"Hush!" whispered Sir Guy, putting his hand upon her bridle. "Ride forward at an easy gait until I give example of haste."

They trotted quietly past the greater number of the group until a dark figure approached and a voice in the gloom said, severely:

"What dost thou here? Who rides with thee, lass?"

Sir Guy now leaned forward and spurred his horse, leaping away into the darkness without a word. In equal silence Phoebe followed his example and galloped headlong close behind her lover.

"Help, ho!" yelled old Sir Isaac. "'Tis the traitor Fenton, with my daughter! After them—stop them—a Burton—a Burton!" and, mad with excitement, the angry father set off in hot pursuit. With one accord the others wheeled about and joined in the chase, uttering cries and imprecations that rang through the country for a mile around.

"Now have we need of speed!" said Sir Guy, as they galloped together toward London, whose walls were now visible in the distance. "Soon will the whole country join the hue-and-cry. The watch will meet us at the gate."

"'Twere better, were it not," Phoebe suggested, "that we turn to the left and make a circuit into the Aldersgate?"

"Good wit, my lady!" cried Guy, whose excitement had taken on the form of an exalted gayety. "Who rides with thee rides safe, my love—e'en as Theseus of old did ride, scathless 'neath the spell of protecting Pallas!"

"Stuff!" said Phoebe, spurring again, with a smile.

Guy led the way at once across country to the eastward, the soft English turf so deadening their hoof-beats that those behind them had no clue to their change of route.

When the pursuing party reached the Bishopsgate, they met the watch and learned that no one had passed since the hue-and-cry was heard.

"Here divide we, then," cried stout Sir Isaac Burton. "Let eight follow them around the wall, while I with other six ride on, that, if haply they have entered London by the Aldersgate, we may meet them within the city."

The suggestion was adopted, and, all unconscious of their peril, the lovers were rapidly hemmed in between two bands of pursuers. Sir Guy and Phoebe reached the Aldersgate unmolested and were allowed to pass in without protest, as the hue-and-cry had not yet reached so far. They ambled quietly past the watch, arousing no suspicion, but no sooner had they turned the first corner than once more they urged their tired horses to greater exertion.

"Choose we the side streets," said Guy. "Who knows what watch hath been set on Gracechurch Street. 'Tis for London Bridge we are bound, is't not?"

"Yes," said Phoebe. "I pray no prying watch detain us ere we pass that way!"

Picking their way through the dark and narrow streets at a pace necessarily much reduced, they slowly approached their goal, until at length, on emerging into New Fish Street, they discerned the towering walls of London Bridge.

Here they reined in suddenly with one accord, for, plainly visible in the moonlight, a group of horsemen was gathered and there was borne to their ears the sturdy voice of Sir Isaac.

"Hallo!" he cried. "There be riders in New Fish Street. See where they lurk in the shadow! What ho, there! Give a name! Stand forth there!"

Sir Guy drew his sword.

"'Tis time for steel to answer!" he laughed.

"Nay—nay! Wait—wait!" said Phoebe, earnestly. "There must be other issue than in blood!"

Two or three horsemen now detached themselves from the group near the bridge and cantered up New Fish Street. Sir Isaac was among them.

"Are ye there, traitor?" he cried. "Where is my daughter?"

Sir Guy was about to reply when Phoebe put her hand on his arm.

"Hush!" she whispered. "Hearken!"

Faint at first, but growing momentarily louder, there came the clear trilling of a mysterious bell. It floated out from the dark by-ways whence they had themselves just emerged, and something eerie and uncanny in its clamor brought a thrill of terror to the young knight's nerves for the first time.

"Now, what in God's name—" he began.

But he broke off in horror, for there flashed past him, as silent as the wind and swifter, a dark, bent figure, with flying cloak, under which, as the moonlight struck him, there whirled a web of glittering tissue whereon he seemed to ride. That uncanny tinkling floated back from this strange vision, confirming to the ear what otherwise might have appeared a mere trick of the vision.

As for Sir Isaac and his band, the distant bell had early brought them to a wondering stand; and now, as this rushing phantom—trilling—trilling—trilling—swept down on a living moonbeam, with one accord they put spurs to their steeds, and with cries of horror fled in all directions.

"Forward!" cried Phoebe, exultantly. "Why, what now!" she exclaimed, as she saw her lover still sitting petrified with fear. "How now, my knight! Why sit you here amazed? Is not the way clear? Come—follow—follow!" and she started forward on a trot.

But her lover did not move, and she was obliged to turn back. Laying her hand on his arm:

"Why, what ails thee, dear heart?" she asked.

"The spectre—the ghostly steed!" he stammered.

"Oh—oh!" laughed Phoebe. "Why, this was but some venturous bicyclist on his wheel!"

"A bicyclist!" exclaimed Sir Guy. "Can you thus give a name to this black phantom, Mary?"

"'Tis naught, dear Guy, believe me!" she said. Then, in pleading tones, she continued: "Didst not agree to trust thy lady, dear?"

The young knight passed his hand over his eyes and straightened himself resolutely in his saddle.

"E'en to the death, love. Lead on! I shall not falter!"

They trotted forward through a now silent street to the bridge, and soon found themselves enveloped in the darkness and assailed by the countless odors of London Bridge. From time to time they crossed a path of moonlight, and here Phoebe would smile into the eyes of her still much-puzzled lover and murmur words of encouragement.

Before they reached Southwark, there rang out behind them the sound of hoofs upon the stones of the bridge.

"Can these be your father's minions, think you?" said Sir Guy.

"Nay!" Phoebe exclaimed. "Rest assured, they were scattered too far to dog our steps again to-night."

They emerged some moments later on the Southwark side and saw the pillory towering ahead of them.

"How far shall we fare to-night, love?" asked the knight.

"To Newington on horseback," Phoebe replied, "and then—well, then shalt thou see more faring."

There was a loud cry from the bridge, startling the pair from their fancied security.

"There they ride! The watch, ho! Stop the traitor! Stop him! For the Queen! For the Queen!"

"God help us!" cried Phoebe. "'Tis the two yeomen of the Peacock Inn!"

With one accord the pair clapped spurs to their horses' sides and resumed once more the flight which they had thought concluded.



CHAPTER XVII

REBECCA'S TRUMP CARD

When Rebecca set out for the Panchronicon from London Bridge, she knew that she had a long walk in prospect, and settled down to the work with dogged resolution. Her trip was quite uneventful until she neared the village of Newington, and then she realized for the first time that she did not know exactly where to find the deserted grove. One grove looked much like another, and how was she to choose between garden walls "as like as two peas," as she expressed it?

"Look here, Rebecca Wise," she said, aloud, as she paused in the middle of the road, "you'll be lost next you know!"

She looked about dubiously and shook her head.

"The thing fer you to do is to set right down an' wait fer that pesky good-fer-nothin' Copernicus Droop!" she remarked, and suiting action to speech she picked her way to a convenient mile-stone and seated herself.

Having nothing better to do, she began to review mentally the events of the last two days, and as she recalled one after the other the unprecedented adventures which had overtaken her, she wondered in a dreamy way what would next befall. She built hazy hypotheses, sitting there alone in the moonlight, nodding contentedly. Suddenly she straightened up, realizing that she had been aroused from a doze by a cry near at hand.

Turning toward London, she saw a wriggling mass about fifty feet away which, by a process of slow disentanglement, gradually developed into a man's form rising from the ground and raising a fallen bicycle.

"Darn the luck!" said this dark figure. "Busted my tire, sure as shootin'!"

"Copernicus Droop!" cried Rebecca, in a loud voice.

Droop jumped high in the air, so great was his nervousness. Then, realizing that it was Rebecca who had addressed him, he limped toward her, rolling his bicycle beside him.

"How in creation did you get here?" he asked. "Ain't any steam-cars 'round here, is there?"

"Guess not!" Rebecca replied. "I come by short cut up river. I guessed you'd make fer the Panchronicle, and I jest made up my mind to come, too. Thinks I, 'that Copernicus Droop ud be jest mean enough to fly away all by himself an' leave me an' Phoebe to shift fer ourselves.' So I'm here to go, too—an' what's more, we've got to take Phoebe!"

"How'll ye find yer sister, Cousin Rebecca?" said Droop. "We must git out to-night. When the Queen gets on her ear like that, it's now or never. Can you find Cousin Phoebe to-night?"

"Where is the old machine, anyhow?" Rebecca asked, not heeding Droop's question.

"Right over yonder," said he, pointing to a dark group of trees a few rods distant.

"Well, come on, then. Let's go to it right away," said Rebecca. "I'd like to rest a bit. I'm tired!"

"Tired!" Droop exclaimed. "What about me, then?"

Without further parley, the two set off toward the grove which Droop had indicated. Having dwelt here for several weeks, he knew his bearings well, but it was not until they came much nearer to the deserted mansion that Rebecca recognized several landmarks which convinced her that he had made no mistake.

Under the trees, the shadows were so black that they were unable to find the breach in the wall.

"Got any matches, Cousin Rebecca?" Droop asked.

"Yes. Wait a minute an' I'll strike a light. I know that blessed hole is somewhere right near here."

She found again her card of matches, and breaking off one of them, soon had a tiny taper which lit up their surroundings wonderfully.

"There 'tis! I've found it," cried Droop, and, taking Rebecca by the arm, he led her toward the broken place in the wall. The match went out just as they reached it.

Droop was about to suggest that he go in first to see if all was well, when he was startled by Rebecca's hand on his arm.

"Hark!" she cried.

He listened and distant cries coming nearer through the night were borne to his ears.

"What's that?" Rebecca exclaimed again.

Rigid with excitement and dread, they stood there listening. At length Droop pulled himself free of Rebecca's hold.

"That's some o' them palace folks chasin' after me!" he cried, in a panic.

"Fiddle-dee-dee!" Rebecca exclaimed, with energy. "How should they know where you are?"

By this time the sounds were more distinct, and they could easily make out cries of: "Traitor! Stop him! For the Queen! Stop him!"

The two listeners had just mentally concluded that this alarm did not in any wise concern them when Rebecca was startled beyond measure to hear her sister Phoebe's voice, loud above all other sounds.

"Nay—nay, Guy!" she was screaming. "Stop not to fight! Fly—follow! Shelter is here at hand!"

Forgetting everything but possible danger for Phoebe, Rebecca dashed out from under the trees.

There in the moonlight she saw Phoebe on horseback, her head uncovered, her hair floating free and her clothing in tatters. A few paces behind her was Sir Guy, also mounted, fiercely attacking two pursuing horsemen with his sword. Farther back, rendered indistinct by distance, was a larger group of mingled horse and foot travellers. There was a lantern among them, and Rebecca inferred that the watch was with them.

A moment later, one of the two men engaged with Sir Guy fell from his horse. Instantly the young knight turned upon the second pursuer, who fled at once toward the larger group now rapidly approaching.

Rebecca ran forward and waved her card of matches frantically, apparently thinking in her excitement that she held a flag.

"Here, Phoebe—here, child!" she screamed. "This way, quick! Here we are awaitin' fer ye. Come, quick—quick!"

With a loud cry of joy, Phoebe slipped from her horse and ran toward her sister.

"Oh, Rebecca, Rebecca!" she cried, throwing herself into her sister's arms. "Oh, you dear, lovely, sweet old darling!"

Rebecca kissed her younger sister with tears in her eyes, almost as affected as the girl herself, who was now laughing and crying hysterically on her breast.

While they stood thus tightly locked in each other's arms, Guy came to their side with sword in hand.

"Quick!" he said, sharply. "You must away to shelter. Here comes the watch apace. I will protect the rear."

The two women started apart and Phoebe set forward obediently, but Rebecca only gave the fast-approaching crowd a look of proud contempt.

"Fiddle-ends!" she exclaimed. "You go on ahead, Guy. I'll fix them queer folks!"

Whether Rebecca's voice convinced him of her power to make good her words or that he felt his first duty was at Phoebe's side, the fact is that the young knight strode forward with his sweetheart toward the breach in the wall, leaving Rebecca behind to bear the first attack.

Droop had already passed within the enclosure and was groping his way toward the black mass of the Panchronicon.

Phoebe, led by an accurate memory of her surroundings, had but little difficulty in finding the opening, and, by her voice, Sir Guy and Rebecca were guided to it.

Phoebe passed through first and Sir Guy followed just as the advance guard of the pursuing mob rushed under the trees, swinging their two lanterns and shouting aloud:

"Here—this way! We have 'em fast!"

Rebecca coolly stooped and drew the edge of her entire card of matches across a stone at her feet. Then, standing erect, she thrust the sulphurous blue blaze into the faces of two rough-looking fellows just advancing to seize her.

Sir Guy, who stood within the wall, found cause for deep amazement in the yell of startled fear with which Rebecca's act was met; and deeper yet grew his astonishment when that cry was re-echoed by the whole terror-stricken mob, who turned as one man to flee from this flaming, sulphurous sorceress.

Rebecca quietly waited until the sulphur had burned off and the wood blazed bright and clear. Then she pushed through the broken wall and showed the way to their destination by the light of the small torch.

Sir Guy's feelings may be imagined when he suddenly found that they were all four standing before a strangely formed structure in the side of which Copernicus had just opened a door.

"Why, Mary!" he exclaimed, pausing in his walk. "What have we here?"

She took his hand with a smile and drew him gently forward.

"Trust thy Mary yet further, Guy," she said. "Thy watchword must be, 'Trust and question not.'"

He smiled in reply and, sheathing his sword, stepped boldly forward into the interior of the Panchronicon. Phoebe knew the power of superstition in that age, and she glowed with pride and tenderness, conscious that in this act of faith in her the knight evinced more courage than ever he might need to bear him well in battle.

When the electric lights shed a sudden bright glare down the spiral staircase, Sir Guy cowered and stopped short again, turning pale with a fear irrepressible. But Phoebe put one arm about his neck and drew his head down to hers, whispering in his ear. What she said none heard save him, but the spell of her words was potent, for the young knight stood erect once more and firmly ascended to the room above.

Droop stood nervously waiting at the engine-room door.

"Are ye all in?" he said, sharply. "Where's Cousin Rebecca?"

"Here I be!" came a voice from below. "I'm jest lockin' the door tight."

"Well, hurry up—hurry! Come up here an' lay down. I'm goin' to start."

In a few moments all was in readiness. Droop pulled the lever, and with a roar and a mighty bound the Panchronicon, revived by its long period of waiting, sped upward into the night.

As the four fugitives sat upright again, and Droop, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, was about to speak, the door of one of the bedchambers was opened, and a stranger dressed in nineteenth-century attire stepped forward, shading his blinking eyes with his hand.

The two women screamed, but Droop only dropped amazed into a chair.

"Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed.

Then, leaping forward eagerly, he cried aloud:

"Gimme them clothes!"

* * * * *

Of the return trip of the five, little need be said save to record one untoward incident which has been the occasion of a most unfortunate historic controversy.

The date-recording instrument must have been deranged in some way, for when, after a great number of eastward turns around the pole, it marked the year 1898, they had really only reached 1857. Supposing themselves to have actually reached the year erroneously indicated by the recorder, they set off southward and made a first landing in Hartford, Connecticut.

Here they discovered their mistake, and returned to the pole to complete their journey in time. All but Francis Bacon. He declared that so much whirling made him giddy, and remained in Connecticut. Alas! Had Phoebe known the result of this desertion, she would never have consented to it.

Bacon, who had read much of Shakespeare while in the Panchronicon, found on returning thus accidentally to modern America, that this playwright was esteemed the first and greatest of poets and dramatists by the modern world. Then and there he planned a conspiracy to rob the greatest character in literary history of his just fame; and, under the pseudonym of "Delia Bacon," advanced those theories of his own concealed authorship which have ever since deluded the uncritical and disgusted all lovers of common-sense and of justice.

Copernicus Droop, on returning his three remaining passengers to their proper dates and addresses, discovered that his sole remaining phonograph, with certain valuable records of Elizabethan origin, had disappeared. As he owed a grudge to Francis Bacon, that worthy fell at once under suspicion, and accordingly Droop promptly returned to 1857, sought out the deserter, and charged him with having stolen these instruments.

It was not until the accused man had indignantly denied all knowledge of Droop's property that the crestfallen Yankee recollected that he had left the apparatus in question in the deserted mansion of Newington, where he had stored it for greater safety after Bacon's first unexpected visit.

Without hesitation, he determined to return to 1598 and reclaim his own. Bacon, who had learned from modern historical works of the brilliant future in store for himself in England, begged Droop to take him back; and as an atonement for his unjust accusation, Droop consented.

It is not generally known that, contrary to common report, Francis Bacon was not arrested for debt in 1598; but that, during the time he was supposed to have been in prison, he was actually engaged in building up in his own behalf the greatest hoax in history.

* * * * *

Let those who may be inclined to discredit this scrupulously authentic chronicle proceed forthwith to Peltonville, New Hampshire, and there ask for Mr. and Mrs. Guy Fenton. From them will be gained complete corroboration of this history, not only in the account which they will give of their own past adventures, but in the unmistakable Elizabethan flavor distinguishable to this day in their speech and manner. Indeed, the single fact that both ale and beer are to be found behind their wood-pile should be convincing evidence on this point.

As for Rebecca, fully convinced at last of the marvellous qualities of the Panchronicon, she never tires of taking her little nephew, Isaac Burton Wise Fenton, on her knee and telling him of her amazing adventures in the palace of "Miss Tudor."

THE END