“You speak words of wisdom, Anthony,” remarked Lord Stafford. “Let us hope that the boy will not be tried by so grievous an instrument. Yet I do believe that he will be discreet.”
“He seems a proper lad,” returned the other. “A little backward, forsooth, but with none of the malapertness of some pages.”
Francis, now completely at ease as she saw that the young man believed her to be what she appeared, flashed an arch look at her father. Lord Stafford smiled slightly, but his countenance soon became overcast with gravity. The meal over, the host withdrew, and the elder man turned once more to the younger one.
“Anthony,” he said, “I must on my way, but let me plead with thee that if thou dost entertain a thought of such rash emprises as thy words suggest, to forego them. Naught but disaster could follow upon such projects.” 50
“My lord, say no more an thou lovest me,” replied Babington. “Mary’s sufferings cry aloud for vengeance. Sleeping or waking her wrongs are before me. My lord, she is a prisoner; made to submit to privations that even the basest criminals do not undergo. Couldst thou have seen her at Tutbury or Wingfield as I have done, you would wonder no longer that deeds of blood suggest themselves.”
“Anthony, thou art mad,” exclaimed Lord Stafford compassionately.
“Mad! nay; but Mary Stuart hath languished too long in her chains. I would dare anything to release her from them.”
“And so would we all who love and reverence her as the true heiress of England’s crown, Anthony. Yet I fear that thou dost meditate wrong to Elizabeth, but surely thou wouldst not raise thy hand against a woman?”
“Ay, my lord! Against a woman, or what not for Mary’s sake.”
“But Mary would not approve such measure.”