They hurried on, the man behind them taking less care to remain unseen than he did when coming. Mary's fears grew upon her as she heard his step and saw his form persistently following them, and she clutched Jane by the arm.

"It is all over with us, I know. I would give everything I have or ever expect to have on earth for--for Master Brandon at this moment."

She thought of him as the one person best able to defend her.

This was only too welcome an opportunity, and Jane said: "That is Master Brandon following us. If we wait a few seconds he will be here," and she called to him before Mary could interpose.

Now this disclosure operated in two ways. Brandon's presence was, it is true, just what Mary had so ardently wished, but the danger, and, therefore, the need, was gone when she found that the man who was following them had no evil intent. Two thoughts quickly flashed through the girl's mind. She was angry with Brandon for having cheated her out of so many favors and for having slighted her love, as she had succeeded in convincing herself was the case, all of which Grouche had confirmed by telling her he was false. Then she had been discovered in doing what she knew she should have left undone, and what she was anxious to conceal from every one; and, worst of all, had been discovered by the very person from whom she was most anxious to hide it.

So she turned upon Jane angrily: "Jane Bolingbroke, you shall leave me as soon as we get back to Greenwich for this betrayal of my confidence."

She was not afraid now that the danger was over, and feared no new danger with Brandon at hand to protect her, for in her heart she felt that to overcome a few fiery dragons and a company or so of giants would be a mere pastime to him; yet see how she treated him. The girls had stopped when Jane called Brandon, and he was at once by their side with uncovered head, hoping for, and, of course, expecting, a warm welcome. But even Brandon, with his fund of worldly philosophy, had not learned not to put his trust in princesses, and his surprise was benumbing when Mary turned angrily upon him.

"Master Brandon, your impudence in following us shall cost you dearly.

We do not desire your company, and will thank you to leave us to our own affairs, as we wish you to attend exclusively to yours."

This from the girl who had given him so much within less than a week!

Poor Brandon!

Jane, who had called him up, and was the cause of his following them, began to weep.

"Sir," said she, "forgive me; it was not my fault; she had just said--" Slap! came Mary's hand on Jane's mouth; and Jane was marched off, weeping bitterly.

The girls had started up toward East Cheap when they left Grouche's, intending to go home by an upper route, and now they walked rapidly in that direction. Brandon continued to follow them, notwithstanding what Mary had said, and she thanked him and her G.o.d ever after that he did.

They had been walking not more than five minutes, when, just as the girls turned a corner into a secluded little street, winding its way among the fish warehouses, four hors.e.m.e.n pa.s.sed Brandon in evident pursuit of them. Brandon hurried forward, but before he reached the corner heard screams of fright, and as he turned into the street distinctly saw that two of the men had dismounted and were trying to overtake the fleeing girls. Fright lent wings to their feet, and their short skirts affording freedom to their limbs, they were giving the pursuers a warm little race, screaming at every step to the full limit of their voices. How they did run and scream! It was but a moment till Brandon came up with the pursuers, who, all unconscious that they in turn were pursued, did not expect an attack from the rear. The men remaining on horseback shouted an alarm to their comrades, but so intent were the latter in their pursuit that they did not hear. One of the men on foot fell dead, pierced through the back of the neck by Brandon's sword, before either was aware of his presence. The other turned, but was a corpse before he could cry out. The girls had stopped a short distance ahead, exhausted by their flight. Mary had stumbled and fallen, but had risen again, and both were now leaning against a wall, clinging to each other, a picture of abject terror.

Brandon ran to the girls, but by the time he reached them the two men on horseback were there also, hacking away at him from their saddles.

Brandon did his best to save himself from being cut to pieces and the girls from being trampled under foot by the prancing horses. A narrow jutting of the wall, a foot or two in width, a sort of flying b.u.t.tress, gave him a little advantage, and up into the slight shelter of the corner thus formed he thrust the girls, and with his back to them, faced his unequal foe with drawn sword. Fortunately the position allowed only one horse to attack them. Two men on foot would have been less in each other's way and much more effective. The men, however, stuck to their horses, and one of them pressed the attack, striking at Brandon most viciously. It being dark, and the distance deceptive, the horseman's sword at last struck the wall, a flash of sparks flying in its trail, and lucky it was, or this story would have ended here.

Thereupon Brandon thrust his sword into the horse's throat, causing it to rear backward, plunging and lunging into the street, where it fell, holding its rider by the leg against the cobble-stones of a little gutter.

A cry from the fallen horseman brought his companion to his side, and gave Brandon an opportunity to escape with the girls. Of this he took advantage, you may be sure, for one of his mottoes was, that the greatest fool in the world is he who does not early in life learn how and when to run.

In the light of the sparks from the sword-stroke upon the wall, brief as it was, Brandon recognized the face of Buckingham, from which the mask had fallen. Of this he did not speak to any one till long afterward, and his silence was almost his undoing.

How often a word spoken or unspoken may have the very deuce in it either way!

The girls were nearly dead from fright, and in order to make any sort of progress Brandon had to carry the princess and help Jane until he thought they were out of danger. Jane soon recovered, but Mary did not seem anxious to walk, and lay with her head upon Brandon's shoulder, apparently contented enough.

In a few minutes Jane said, "If you can walk now, my lady, I think you had better. We shall soon be near Fishmonger's Hall, where some one is sure to be standing at this hour."

Mary said nothing in reply to Jane, but, as Brandon fell a step or two behind at a narrow crossing, whispered:

"Forgive me, forgive me; I will do any penance you ask; I am unworthy to speak your name. I owe you my life and more--and more a thousand times." At this she lifted her arm and placed her hand upon his cheek and neck. She then learned for the first time that he was wounded, and the tears came softly as she slipped from his arms to the ground. She walked beside him quietly for a little time, then, taking his hand in both of hers, gently lifted it to her lips and laid it upon her breast. Half an hour afterward Brandon left the girls at Bridewell House, went over to the Bridge where he had left his horse at a hostelry, and rode down to Greenwich.

So Mary had made her trip to Grouche's, but it was labor worse than lost. Grouche had told her nothing she wanted to know, though much that he supposed she would like to learn. He had told her she had many lovers, a fact which her face and form would make easy enough to discover. He informed her also that she had a low-born lover, and in order to put a little evil in with the good fortune, and give what he said an air of truth, he added to Mary's state of unrest more than he thought by telling her that her low-born lover was false. He thought to flatter her by predicting that she would soon marry a very great prince or n.o.bleman, the indications being in favor of the former, and, in place of this making her happy, she wished the wretched soothsayer in the bottomless pit--he and all his prophecies; herself, too, for going to him. His guesses were pretty shrewd; that is, admitting he did not know who Mary was, which she at least supposed was the case.

So Mary wept that night and moaned and moaned because she had gone to Grouche's. It had added infinitely to the pain of which her heart was already too full, and made her thoroughly wretched and unhappy. As usual though, with the blunders of stubborn, self-willed people, some one else had to pay the cost of her folly. Brandon was paymaster in this case, and when you see how dearly he paid, and how poorly she requited the debt, I fear you will despise her. Wait, though! Be not hasty. The right of judgment belongs to--you know whom. No man knows another man's heart, much less a woman's, so how can he judge? We shall all have more than enough of judging by and by. So let us put off for as many to-morrows as possible the thing that should be left undone to-day.

_CHAPTER IX_

_Put not your Trust in Princesses_

I thought the king's dance that night would never end, so fond were the Frenchmen of our fair ladies, and I was more than anxious to see Brandon and learn the issue of the girls' escapade, as I well knew the danger attending it.

All things, however, must end, so early in the morning I hastened to our rooms, where I found Brandon lying in his clothes, everything saturated with blood from a dozen sword cuts. He was very weak, and I at once had in a barber, who took off his shirt of mail and dressed his wounds. He then dropped into a deep sleep, while I watched the night out. Upon awakening Brandon told me all that had happened, but asked me to say nothing of his illness, as he wished to keep the fact of his wounds secret in order that he might better conceal the cause of them. But, as I told you, he did not speak of Buckingham's part in the affray.

I saw the princess that afternoon, and expected, of course, she would inquire for her defender. One who had given such timely help and who was suffering so much on her account was surely worth a little solicitude; but not a word did she ask. She did not come near me, but made a point of avoidance, as I could plainly see. The next morning she, with Jane, went over to Scotland Palace without so much as a breath of inquiry from either of them. This heartless conduct enraged me; but I was glad to learn afterward that Jane's silence was at Mary's command--that bundle of selfishness fearing that any solicitude, however carefully shown upon her part, might reveal her secret.

It seems that Mary had recent intelligence of the forward state of affairs in the marriage negotiations, and felt that a discovery by her brother of what she had done, especially in view of the disastrous results, would send her to France despite all the coaxing she could do from then till doomsday.

It was a terrible fate hanging over her, doubly so in view of the fact that she loved another man; and looking back at it all from the vantage point of time, I cannot wonder that it drove other things out of her head and made her seem selfish in her frightened desire to save herself.

About twelve o'clock of the following night I was awakened by a knock at my door, and, upon opening, in walked a sergeant of the sheriff of London, with four yeomen at his heels.

The sergeant asked if one Charles Brandon was present, and upon my affirmative answer demanded that he be forthcoming. I told the sergeant that Brandon was confined to his bed with illness, whereupon he asked to be shown to his room.

It was useless to resist or to evade, so I awakened Brandon and took the sergeant in. Here he read his warrant to arrest Charles Brandon, Esquire, for the murder of two citizens of London, perpetrated, done and committed upon the night of such and such a day, of this year of our Lord, 1514. Brandon's hat had been found by the side of the dead men, and the authorities had received information from a high source that Brandon was the guilty person. That high source was evidently Buckingham.

When the sergeant found Brandon covered with wounds there was no longer any doubt, and although hardly able to lift his hand he was forced to dress and go with them. A horse litter was procured and we all started to London.

While Brandon was dressing, I said I would at once go and awaken the king, who I knew would pardon the offense when he heard my story, but Brandon asked the sergeant to leave us to ourselves for a short time, and closed the door.

"Please do nothing of the sort, Caskoden," said he; "if you tell the king I will declare there is not one word of truth in your story.

There is only one person in the world who may tell of that night's happenings, and if she does not they shall remain untold. She will make it all right at once, I know. I would not do her the foul wrong to think for one instant that she will fail. You do not know her; she sometimes seems selfish, but it is thoughtlessness fostered by flattery, and her heart is right. I would trust her with my life. If you breathe a word of what I have told you, you may do more harm than you can ever remedy, and I ask you to say nothing to any one. If the princess would not liberate me ... but that is not to be thought of.

Never doubt that she can and will do it better than you think. She is all gold."

This, of course, silenced me, as I did not know what new danger I might create, nor how I might mar the matter I so much wished to mend.

I did not tell Brandon that the girls had left Greenwich, nor of my undefined, and, perhaps, unfounded fear that Mary might not act as he thought she would in a great emergency, but silently helped him to dress and went to London along with him and the sheriff's sergeant.

Brandon was taken to Newgate, the most loathsome prison in London at that time, it being used for felons, while Ludgate was for debtors.

Here he was thrown into an underground dungeon foul with water that seeped through the old masonry from the moat, and alive with every noisome thing that creeps. There was no bed, no stool, no floor, not even a wisp of a straw; simply the reeking stone walls, covered with fungus, and the windowless arch overhead. One could hardly conceive a more horrible place in which to spend even a moment. I had a glimpse of it by the light of the keeper's lantern as they put him in, and it seemed to me a single night in that awful place would have killed me or driven me mad. I protested and begged and tried to bribe, but it was all of no avail; the keeper had been bribed before I arrived.

Although it could do no possible good, I was glad to stand outside the prison walls in the drenching rain, all the rest of that wretched night, that I might be as near as possible to my friend and suffer a little with him.

Was not I, too, greatly indebted to him? Had he not imperiled his life and given his blood to save the honor of Jane as well as of Mary--Jane, dearer to me a thousand-fold than the breath of my nostrils? And was he not suffering at that moment because of this great service, performed at my request and in my place? If my whole soul had not gone out to him I should have been the most ungrateful wretch on earth; worse even than a pair of selfish, careless girls.

But it did go out to him, and I believe I would have bartered my life to have freed him from another hour in that dungeon.

As soon as the prison gates were opened next morning, I again importuned the keeper to give Brandon a more comfortable cell, but his reply was that such crimes had of late become so frequent in London that no favor could be shown those who committed them, and that men like Brandon, who ought to know and act better, deserved the maximum punishment.

I told him he was wrong in this case; that I knew the facts, and everything would be clearly explained that very day and Brandon released.

"That's all very well," responded the stubborn creature; "n.o.body is guilty who comes here; they can every one prove innocence clearly and at once. Notwithstanding, they nearly all hang, and frequently, for variety's sake, are drawn and quartered."

I waited about Newgate until nine o'clock, and as I pa.s.sed out met Buckingham and his man Johnson, a sort of lawyer-knight, going in. I went down to the palace at Greenwich, and finding that the girls were still at Scotland Palace, rode over at once to see them.

Upon getting Mary and Jane to myself, I told them of Brandon's arrest on the charge of murder, and of his condition, lying half dead from wounds and loss of blood, in that frightful dungeon. The tale moved them greatly, and they both gave way to tears. I think Mary had heard of the arrest before, as she did not seem surprised.

"Do you think he will tell the cause of the killing?" she asked.