"Where is the man? Bring him hither instantly."
The changes of expression in her countenance had been so lightning-like, so rapid, that the girl stood for a moment like one bewildered, but then, at an impatient gesture of the princess, hurried from the room. At the end of a minute or two she returned, followed by the piper, somewhat better clothed than usual, but still bearing evident signs of his class, if not of his profession, about him. The princess fixed her eyes upon his face, with a keen, penetrating, inquiring look, as if she would have searched his soul, and then said, turning to the girl who had accompanied him into the room: "Retire."
Still, after the attendant was gone, Mary continued to gaze upon the man before her in silence. It seemed as if she wished, before she spoke, to read something of his nature and his character from his looks. At length, in a low and tremulous but yet distinct voice, she asked:
"Where got you this cross?"
"That I must not say, lady," replied the piper. "Are you the princess Mary of Scotland?"
"I am," she answered. "Must not say?--Good faith, but you must say! This cross is mine; and I will know how you possessed yourself of it."
"If you be the princess Mary of Scotland, and that cross be yours," replied the piper, who was now quite sober, and had all his wits about him, "I was bid to tell you that the fate of the person you seek for may still be heard of near the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston. You may keep the cross without payment, for in reality it was sent to you as a token."
"Keep it," cried the princess, pressing it to her bosom, "that I will! I will never part with it more. Payment! Here, hold out your hand;" and, half emptying her purse into it, she added: "Had you brought me a king's crown, you had brought me nothing half so precious." Then, leaning her brow upon her fair hands, she fell into a long deep train of thought, which, perhaps, led her far away, to early days, and scenes of youthful joy and happiness, while hope, and love, and ignorance of ill, the guardian angels of youth's paradise, watched round her path and round her bed. At length, She seemed to tear herself away from the visions of memory; and looking up, she said, in a slow and somewhat sad voice--
"St. Clare of Atherston. Ay, it was near there, at Atherston moor. But, how can that be? I have watched, and enquired, and examined, and seen with mine own eyes; and there was no trace."
"I cannot tell your highness how it can be," replied the messenger; "for I know little or nothing; and guesses are often bad guides. But this I can do. I can lead you to one who can give you all the tidings you desire."