“I’ll have his life for it, the coward!” exclaimed Cicely.
“Blame him not yet. He met another friend of mine, and sent a message. It was that he did but obey his master’s last orders, and, as he had seen too much and to linger here was certain death, if he lived, he would return from over-seas with the papers when the times are safer. He prayed that you would not doubt him.”
“The papers! What papers, Emlyn?”
She shrugged her broad shoulders.
“How should I know? Doubtless some that your father was taking to London and did not desire to lose. His iron chest stands open in his chamber.”
Now poor Cicely remembered that her father had spoken of certain “deeds” which he must take with him, and began to sob.
“Weep not, darling,” said her foster-mother, smoothing Cicely’s brown hair with her strong hand. “These things are decreed of God, and done with. Now you must look to yourself. Your father is gone, but one remains.”
Cicely lifted her tear-stained face.
“Yes, I have you,” she said.
“Me!” she answered, with a quick smile. “Nay, of what use am I? Your nursing days are over. What did you tell me your father said to you before he rode—about Sir Christopher? Hush! there’s no time to talk; you must away to Cranwell Towers.”