could she but faintly follow such beauty. But
I fear not thy disclosure, sirrah. Art thou not in disgrace? Then what
boots it what thou sayst?"

"True;" said Francis and opened her lips no more. Clip, clip, went the
shears until at last all of her ringlets lay, a mass of ruddy gold, in a
great heap among the rushes. Francis looked at them, and then at the
mocking face of the lady, and her heart throbbed with wrath.

"Madam," she said as the Lady Priscilla untied her bonds and she was once
more free, "I will never forgive this."

"Thou art rude, sirrah," laughed the lady. "But I blame thee not. Be
patient, master page. I will come to thee when thy locks have been woven
into a wig and thou shalt see how well they become me."

"Thou shalt never wear hair of mine," cried Francis, white with anger.
Before the lady or her maids could prevent she seized a lamp from one of
the scones and threw it into the midst of red curls.

"Help! Help!" cried the lady and the maids simultaneously, for the lamp
which was of the simplest manufacture, being a wick fed by oil, set fire
instantly to the curls and surrounding rushes. Scattering to the right
and left the maids called lustily: "Fire! Fire! Seize the boy!"

Staying only long enough to see that there was no probability of saving
the hair, Francis dashed through the arras, and fled through chamber
after chamber trying to find an exit.

"This way," she heard a voice call as, bewildered and confused, she
paused, not knowing which way to turn.

To her amazement, Edward Devereaux stood in a door of a chamber beckoning
to her. She gave an exclamation of surprise but, enemy though she
considered him, followed him without hesitation. Through a maze of rooms
the boy led the way with the air of one to whom they were familiar; then
down a flight of steps, through an open window and out upon a balcony
that overlooked the great garden.

"We will conceal ourselves in the shrubbery," he said vaulting lightly
over the rail into the garden below, followed closely by the girl. They
stopped in the shadow of a clump of close clipped black yews. "Here we
can remain," he said, "until the hue and cry is over. What happened,
Francis?"

Francis poured forth her story rapidly.

"I hate this vile court," she cried with a burst of passionate tears as
she concluded. "I want my home! Oh, I want to go home!"

"I blame you not, Francis Stafford," said Edward Devereaux forbearing to
taunt her with the