There was a move at the entrance of the lady, and her husband rose, came forward, and as he gave her the courteous kiss of greeting, demanded, “What is all this coil? Is the little wench dead?”
“Nay, but I fear me she cannot live,” was the answer.
“Will Dacre of Whitburn’s maid? That’s ill, poor child! How fell it out?”
“That I know as little as you,” was the answer. “I have been seeing to the poor little maid’s hurts.”
Lord Salisbury placed her in the chair like his own. In point of fact, she was Countess in her own right; he, Richard Nevil, had been created Earl of Salisbury in her right on the death of her father, the staunch warrior of Henry V. in the siege of Orleans.
“Speak out, Leonard Copeland,” said the Earl. “What hast thou done?”
The boy only growled, “I never meant to hurt the maid.”
“Speak to the point, sir,” said Lord Salisbury sternly; “give yourself at least the grace of truth.”
Leonard grew more silent under the show of displeasure, and only hung his head at the repeated calls to him to speak. The Earl turned to those who were only too eager to accuse him.
“He took a bar of iron from the forge, so please you, my lord, and put it to the barrel of powder.”