“Would that I had given thee a daughter of gentler spirit,” sobbed the lady. “Oh, my lord, pardon my utterance. I fear, I fear——”
“There! we will return safely and thou wilt forget thy misgivings in the success of our enterprise. But now to bed, to bed. The first gray of the morning must find us on our way. To bed, my child.”
CHAPTER IV
ANTHONY BABINGTON
It was that darkest hour of the night, the one just before the dawn, that Francis was summoned to attend her father. None of the household was stirring save Brooks, an old servitor, who stood at the foot of the steps with the horses. The statues of terrace and court gleamed ghostly white in the darkness, and the grim old keep frowned darkly upon them. The deserted aspect of the courtyard filled the girl with dismay. High purposes and noble resolves flourish in the bright light of day and grow into mightiness in the first hours of the night, but the early dawn chills enthusiasm and makes the inspirations of the night before seem poor and weak and hardly worth an effort.
Something of this feeling oppressed Francis Stafford. She missed the shouting of the gallants, the screaming of the hawks, the 38 yelping of the dogs and the blowing of horns that was the accompaniment of a hunting-party. Instead of such a triumphal departure there was only the low sobbing of Lady Stafford as she bade them farewell.
“My lord, you will have great care for you both, will you not?” she murmured, trying to control her emotion. “Oh, I like not the journey! I like it not!”
“Be not dismayed,” comforted her husband. “We will return soon, and there is no danger. We will be with thee again ere thou hast had time to miss us.”