sive. And then began a
curious scene. Parry, thrust and parry--the steel rattled, and the
strange duel was on. The nightingales ceased their singing as if amazed
at the folly of the human things. The only sound that fell upon the air
besides the clash of the blades was the labored breathing of the
contestants. Francis' new-found knowledge stood her well in hand, and she
pressed her opponent furiously. Suddenly she made a false step----

"A hit! a hit!" cried Edward Devereaux.

As the rapier entered her right arm the weakness of her sex overcame the
girl. She uttered a faint cry, and, for the first time in her life, fell
in a dead faint.

CHAPTER XV

THE STRANGE WEAKNESS OF FRANCIS STAFFORD

When Francis recovered consciousness she found Edward Devereaux bending
over her with the utmost concern.

"You live," he cried joyfully as she opened her eyes. "Now Heaven be
praised! Methought that I had killed thee, Master Stafford."

"Methought that it was to be a tilt a l'outrance," said Francis trying to
rise. "Oh," she moaned sinking back as dizziness again assailed her. "I
know not why but I am so weak. Bethink you that I am dying, Master
Devereaux?"

"I understand it not," returned the lad much perturbed. "The wound is
naught. See! I slashed the sleeve of thy doublet and examined it. The cut
should tingle and smart as all such do when green, but there is naught in
it that should cause thy death. Art thou still no better?"

"Nay;" said Francis feebly. "I am sure that my time is come. Good Edward,
I beseech you, bring me a priest that he may shrive me."

"There is no priest in all the castle walls, Francis Stafford. Know you
not that priests and all such popery are forbid? I will call a
chirurgeon."

"Nay; do not so," said the girl. "What this weakness that has o'ertaken
me may be, I know not, unless it be death. E'er I depart I would assoil
my soul of all taint. Therefore incline thine ear, Master Devereaux, and
receive my confession. It cuts me to the quick to make acknowledgment,
but I have hated thee because thy skill with the bow was greater than
mine." She paused for a moment. It was hard for Francis Stafford to
confess fault even though she believed herself to be dying. Soon she
continued: "It was thine arrow, Edward Devereaux, that slew the deer. I
knew it at the time, but I liked not to own thy skill. Wilt thou pardon
me?"

"Gladly, gladly," said Devereaux. "Only I know not how thou couldst have