“Be not too pert, sir page. I wrung from the old woman that thou wert, after I found that we o’erslept. Now, boy, was it due to thee or to the witch that we slept so long?”
“To me, master,” replied the girl boldly. “Upon my shoulders cast all blame. Impute nothing to the old woman. I did all, for I knew that I must distance thee to warn my father. And thou wert outstripped! Thou wert close after the game but he took to soil, and the track is lost, good master.”
“Crow on, my bantam,” cried Wainwright angrily. “Thou wilt sing another tune when Sir Francis Walsingham hath thee. And mark me, sirrah! The track will be regained, and the game brought to cover ere thou dost 237 reach the Tower. Then upon Tower Hill thou canst behold its breaking up.”
Francis turned pale as death at this reference to what would be her father’s fate if taken.
“Ah, that hipped thee, young cock! Dost ken what happens to traitors? ’Twill be thy fate as well as thy father’s. Dream on’t, master! Now must you and your mother take horse for London.”
“To-day?” said Francis faintly, a sense of weakness coming over her. “Oh, sir, not to-day, beseech you. I have ridden so much. I am so tired!”
“This day shalt thou start,” said Wainwright rejoicing with all the might of a small man in the power over another. “No pleading will avail thee. Thou must go!”
“As you will then,” answered Francis wearily, though every muscle in her tired body rebelled at this further tax upon her strength.
And so the long, weary journey to London was again begun.