“Come, child,” called Margery. “They sleep as slept the seven sleepers of long ago. And so they will sleep until the dawn. I dare not give them more for fear of death. And they are the queen’s men. Thou wilt have to hasten, child. With these few hours’ advantage thou shouldst reach thy father in time. The storm hath broken. Now thou must away.”
The storm had indeed passed. The rain still fell, but gently. In the west a few stars peeped between the rifts in the clouds. 222
“How can I ever repay thee?” whispered Francis embracing the dame warmly. “Heaven bless thee, mother. Farewell!”
“Farewell. Fear naught. Trust to the guidance of thy horse and this lanthorne. The night is dark, but the dawn comes early. Ride now for thy life, girl. Farewell.”
CHAPTER XXI
AN UNLOOKED FOR RECEPTION
The night was dark as Dame Margery had said. The broken clouds that flitted across the sky obscured the faint light of the stars that struggled to peep through the nebulous masses. At another time the superstitious spirit of the girl would have shrunk from the noises of the wood, and found omens in the hoot of the owl, or the moaning of the wind as it sobbed fitfully through the trees. But now the screech of the night bird and the soughing of the wind fell upon deaf ears for she was so absorbed in the one idea of getting home that all else was unheeded.
In the darkness she was obliged to proceed slowly, trusting rather to the instinct of the horse than to the dim light of the lantern. The dripping trees saturated her garments almost as thoroughly as if it were indeed raining, but the fire of filial love was in her heart, and its flame rendered her impervious to 224 creature discomforts. At length the dawn came, and the sun’s bright beams soon dispersed the mists of the night, his revivifying rays inspiring the girl with new courage. The horse, of his own volition, struck into a brisker gait, and Francis was obliged to control her emotion as each succeeding moment brought her nearer the Hall.