“Heaven grant that I may reach my father before Walsingham’s men,” she murmured. “I have gotten the start of them somehow. Let me make the most of it.”
Now the reason for her advantage was this: several of the conspirators, notably the six who had associated together to assassinate the queen, were in London awaiting their opportunity. Anthony Babington lodged at Walsingham’s own house, lured there by the wily secretary under pretense of taking him into his confidence; while Babington, to further his own ends, seemingly acquiesced in the minister’s plans. It was a case of duplicity against duplicity, craft matched against craft, with the odds on the side of Elizabeth’s brainy secretary. For the reason that the chief conspirators 199 were in London, Walsingham tarried there to apprehend them before sending forth to arrest the other gentlemen concerned in the plot who lived somewhat remotely from the city. But the conspirators had gotten wind of his intentions, and when he reached the city they had fled.
All this the girl did not know until long afterward. Now she pushed forward with the utmost expedition, hoping to reach the Hall before the pursuivants started. The weather was warm, it being the last of July, and the Hall was two days’ journey from London by hard riding. Therefore whatever distance she might gain in the first stage of the trip would be of incalculable advantage.
Toward the end of the day, her horse showing great signs of fatigue, Francis was of necessity forced to allow the animal to settle into a walk. As the steed slackened pace the girl relapsed into thought. So absorbed did she become that she was startled into something closely akin to fright when a man sprang from behind some trees, ran into the road, and seized her horse by the bridle.
At this time the woods and forests of England 200 were infested by highwaymen, gipsies, or Egyptians as they were called, and wandering vagrants whose depredations had been the cause of severe legislation to rid the country of its pests. It had not occurred to Francis that she might be molested by any of these, and she could not forbear a slight scream at the appearance of the man.
His clothing, though of rich material, was torn and ragged as though it had been caught by thorns in the unfrequented paths of the forest. His head was bare of covering, his locks disheveled; his face and hands were of an uneven dark color as though stained with some decoction unskilfully applied. His whole manner was so distraught that Francis trembled excessively.
“Boy,” cried the man wildly, “dismount, and give me thy horse.”
At the first sound of his voice the girl started violently, leaned forward and scanned his face keenly.
“Anthony Babington,” she cried as she recognized the unhappy man, “how came you here?”
“You know me?” cried Babington in dismay. 201 “Who in the fiend’s name are you that know me?”