"My young lady is proud," said her tormentor, fixing on her the little pale eyes she so much disliked. "She is not one of the maidens who would thank one who can make or mar her life, and cast spells that can help her to a princely husband or leave her to a prison."
"Let go," said Cicely, as she saw a retaining hand laid on her pony's bridle; "I will not be beset thus."
"And this is your gratitude to her who helped you to lie in a queen's bosom; ay, and who could aid you to rise higher or fall lower?"
"I owe nothing to you," said Cicely, too angry to think of prudence. "Let me go!"
There was a laugh, and not a woman's laugh. "You owe nothing, quoth my mistress? Not to one who saw you, a drenched babe, brought in from the wreck, and who gave the sign which has raised you to your present honours? Beware!"
By this time, however, the conversation had attracted notice, and several riders were coming towards them.
There was an immediate change of voice from the threatening tone to the beggar's whine; but the words were—"I must have my reward ere I speak out."
"What is this? A masterful beggar wife besetting Mistress Talbot," said Mr. Somer, who came first.
"I had naught to give her," said Cicely.
"She should have the lash for thus frightening you," said Somer. "Yonder lady is too good to such vagabonds, and they come about us in swarms. Stand back, woman, or it may be the worse for you. Let me help you to your horse, Mistress Cicely."