But despite her best efforts the name grew all too quickly, and, as many another had 264 done before her, she grieved when her toil was ended.
Francis Stafford,
1586
was the inscription which she had carved below that of Iane. A feeling of deep depression now took possession of her that even her books failed to dispel.
“If I could but see my mother,” she said pleadingly to the jailor. “Do you not think, good sir, that I might? Let me speak to the lieutenant. Surely he will not refuse me!”
“Thou mayst see her soon,” said the jailor with such a note of kindness in his voice that she looked up startled. “Meseems there is some talk of permitting it.”
“Is there aught amiss?” asked she tremblingly.
“Nay; why should there be?” queried the keeper evasively. “This day perished more of the conspirators against the queen. Making fourteen in all.”
“Was my father among them?” Francis gasped rather than asked the question. 265
“No, boy; he hath not been apprehended, and it is thought that he hath escaped into France.”