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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francis remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A what, my lord?” cried the secretary aghast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yet still it hath been done,” answered the secretary.

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

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

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

“I crave none, sir,” answered Francis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True;” said Francis meditatively. “I had not observed that.”

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

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

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

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

Francis Stafford,

1586

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

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

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

“Is there aught amiss?” asked she tremblingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mother!” uttered the girl brokenly. “My mother!”

“Does she wander?” whispered the lieutenant to the physician. “Didst thou hear her say ‘daughter’?”

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

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

“Nay; her life may go out at any moment.”

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

“Francis, I am dying.”

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

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

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

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

“Mother, mother, speak to me!”

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

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

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

“Girl or boy, whiche’er you be, cease such words,” commanded the lieutenant sternly. “Thou utterest treason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let her weep,” observed the physician. “’Tis all that hath kept her from becoming completely distraught.”

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

And he left the apartment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Edward! Edward Devereaux!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What mean you, Master Devereaux?”

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

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

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

“Thou art not much changed,” said Francis presently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it thou, Edward Devereaux?” demanded Francis.

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

“Surely it was not thee, Edward Devereaux?”

“It was even I, Francis Stafford.”

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

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

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

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

“Fare you well, mistress,” answered Devereaux courteously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know not, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Edward,” breathed the girl, “take me with you.”

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

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

“To my father in France,” replied Francis.

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

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

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

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

“And thou wilt?” cried she with shining eyes.

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

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

“Fare you well,” returned Francis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does Mrs. Shelton stay in your chamber at night?”

“Not now. Not since I recovered from mine illness.”

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

“Yes;” replied Francis surprised. “How knew you that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Francis!”

“I am here,” answered the girl thrilled by the call.

“Then come!”

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

“The sentinel,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

“We must hasten,” said the man who had come to their assistance. “The whole garrison is aroused.”

With all the speed they could muster they hurried to the Tower wharf where a boat was in waiting.

“Devereaux,” said a man grasping the hand of the youth, “is it thou?”

“In very truth ’tis I, Walter. And right glad am I to be here. But hasten, beseech you. I would not be retaken for all the wealth of Spain.”

The boat shot out from the wharf into the river, and passed swiftly down the stream.