CHAPTER XII
THE FAVOR OF PRINCES
The Bow bells were ringing as Francis and her escort, Lord Shrope, drew near the city of London three days later. It was sunset and the silvery peal of the bells was clearly borne to them upon the evening breeze. Merrily they rang. Now wild and free; now loud and deep; now slower and more slow until they seemed to knell the requiem of the day.
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Francis involuntarily drawing rein. “Pause, I pray you, my lord. Do they always ring so?”
“Ay, child. Ever since and long before they sounded so musically in Dick Whittington’s ears: ‘Turn again, turn again, thrice lord mayor of London’! What think you they say? Do they bear a message to your ears?”
The girl listened intently.
“Methinks they say, ‘Come not to London, 122 Francis! Come not to London town!’ But is there not in truth amidst all their toning some melody or chant?”
“There is, child, but not as thou hast so fancifully thought a warning to thee. How melodious is their chime! Think the rather on that than on aught else.”
“Yes, my lord; and how wonderful is the city! Marry! whatever betides I shall have seen London!”