“Peace!” cried Francis, her soul full of bitterness. “Peace! and lead me to my mother.”
The lieutenant, without further speech, led the way across the Tower Green to the southwestern angle of the inner ballium where his 267 own lodgings adjoined the Bell Tower. Kept a close prisoner for more than two months, at another time Francis would have been overpowered with joy at finding herself once more in the open air. But now the breeze fanned her cheeks unnoticed. She followed after the warder, who lighted the way with a torch, seeing and heeding nothing.
The short distance was soon traversed. Entering the lieutenant’s lodgings they passed into a long gallery leading in a westerly direction and were soon in the upper chamber of the Bell Tower. This was the room occupied by Elizabeth at the time of her incarceration during her sister Mary’s reign. That it had been the abode of royalty was the last thought that occurred to Francis Stafford. It held but one thing for her, which was the emaciated form of her mother who lay upon the bed.
With an exclamation of joy Lady Stafford tried to hold out her hands to her daughter, but dropped them weakly on her breast. Too moved to speak Francis could only clasp her close as if she could never let her go.
“My daughter! My daughter!” murmured 268 the mother feebly. “At last I have thee, hold thee again!”
“My mother!” uttered the girl brokenly. “My mother!”
“Does she wander?” whispered the lieutenant to the physician. “Didst thou hear her say ‘daughter’?”
“Yea; but her mind is clear. She is weak but not distraught.” And the physician looked at the dying woman earnestly.
“Will she last long?” queried Sir Michael, the lieutenant, and the physician answered slowly:
“Nay; her life may go out at any moment.”