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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.s.ses. At another time the superst.i.tious 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 c.o.c.k-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.