“Hold, my lord!” shrieked Lady Stafford. “Curse not thy child! Curse not thine own flesh and blood!”
“No child is she of mine, madam. Rather do I believe her some changeling forced upon us by witches’ craft. Never did Stafford betray trust before! Stay me not! Whether child or changeling yet still shall she be cursed.”
“Father, father, I am innocent of having done this monstrous, wicked thing! ’Twas Anthony Babington that hath so maliciously spoken about me! I know——”
“How know you that ’twas Babington?” demanded her father quickly. “Girl, thine own words condemn thee. Say no more! I will listen to thy false words no longer. I curse the day that thou wast born. I curse thee——”
“Forbear,” shrieked the girl in agonized 228 tones. “O, father, withhold thy curse! Hear me for the love of mercy.”
But Lord Stafford tore himself from her clinging hands, and hastily left the room.
“Father,” cried Francis, darting after him. “Father!”
He heeded her not, but strode out of the castle to the place where old Brooks held his horse.
“Father, father!” The frantic girl reached him as he mounted his steed and held out her arms entreatingly. But the father answered never a word, and without another look at her gave spur to his horse, and dashed through the open gates of the court.
Then a great cry of anguish broke from the girl’s lips. A black mist rose before her eyes, engulfing her in its choking, smothering embrace. She swayed unsteadily and fell in an unconscious heap upon the ground.