Walsingham seated himself at a small table upon which were writing materials, and turning to Francis said earnestly,
“Gaze about thee, boy, and reflect upon what thou seest. There is yet time to tell all that thou knowest. Think well ere thou dost doom thy tender limbs to the rack.”
The perspiration started forth in great drops upon the girl’s forehead. Her trembling lips could scarcely frame her utterance as she answered:
“Do to me as ye list, Sir Francis. I will not speak further concerning my father.”
With an exclamation of impatience the secretary made a sign. From behind a stone pillar there stepped forth a man at whose appearance Francis could not forbear a scream. He was tall and very attenuated, clothed 256 wholly in black. His face thin and sinister was of a pale sickly color while his eyes, black and glittering, held the gaze with a basilisk glare. He was the sworn tormentor of the Tower.
Francis shrieked at sight of him, striving in vain to control her terror. Just as the torturer reached her side the door was flung open and a warder, accompanied by Lord Shrope, burst into the room.
“Sir Francis, Sir Francis,” cried Lord Shrope in agitated accents, “for the love of mercy, forbear!”
“My lord,” cried Walsingham starting up, “what means this intrusion?”
“It means, sir, that for thy honor’s sake, for the love which thou bearest thine own fair daughter, I implore you to desist. Wouldst thou subject a maiden to the rack?”
“A what, my lord?” cried the secretary aghast.