“One that knows all of your nefarious purpose,” said Francis accusingly, her girl nature imputing to this man her father’s trouble. “Wretched man, knowest thou that the queen’s men search for thee even now?”
“Ha!” cried Babington peering into her face, “’tis the page that was with Stafford at Salisbury. Boy, where is thy master?”
“At Stafford Hall.”
“And thou! Thou art not with him. Hast thou been at court?” Babington peered suspiciously into her countenance.
“Yes;” answered the unsuspecting girl. “I have been at court, Anthony Babington, where all thy deed is known. The whole palace, ay! the whole city of London is in an uproar because of the discovery of thy intention to kill the queen. I was present when the matter was discovered to the queen. Death will be thy portion if thou art apprehended. Why stand you here? If you would save yourself, fly!”
“Thou present when it was discovered? Then it is thou who hast betrayed us? Varlet! 202 Base brawler of men’s secrets! die, ere thou canst betray others.”
His dagger flashed in the air as he spoke, but ere it could descend Francis gave him a sharp, stinging cut across the face with her whip. With a cry of rage Babington let fall the poniard, and before he could regain the weapon the girl dashed away. On she rode, never stopping until at length the night fell, and she knew that she was far from the wretched Babington.