nd helpless with the
great queen and her ministers against me. Yet I must warn my father. O
dame, I lack so little of being home. If I had a few hours more, just a
few hours! Please, good mother,"--she paused, and flinging her arms
around the woman's neck, she kissed her. Dame Margery's frame shook and
she held the girl close. Then she whispered, stroking her hair softly:

"My bonny maiden, thou shalt have thy wish. For that kiss I would give
thee anything. It hath been years since Margery felt the touch of fresh
young lips. Men fear me, and children shun me, but thou hast not. Once
more, child."

Gratefully Francis kissed her; not once but many times. Then the dame
stole softly out, and the girl followed her. To a corner cupboard the old
woman went, and taking out a phial that held some dark mixture she held
it to the light for a second and shook it gently. Then with that
marvelous agility that had caused Francis to wonder earlier in the
evening she glided among the sleeping men and let fall a tiny drop of the
decoction near the nostrils of each slumberer. A sweet odor filled the
room so subtle and penetrating that the girl beat a hasty retreat into
the smaller chamber, fearing that she too might be overcome by it.

"Come, child," called Margery. "They sleep as slept the seven sleepers of
long ago. And so they will sleep until the dawn. I dare not give them
more for fear of death. And they are the queen's men. Thou wilt have to
hasten, child. With these few hours' advantage thou shouldst reach thy
father in time. The storm hath broken. Now thou must away."

The storm had indeed passed. The rain still fell, but gently. In the west
a few stars peeped between the rifts in the clouds.

"How can I ever repay thee?" whispered Francis embracing the dame warmly.
"Heaven bless thee, mother. Farewell!"

"Farewell. Fear naught. Trust to the guidance of thy horse and this
lanthorne. The night is dark, but the dawn comes early. Ride now for thy
life, girl. Farewell."

CHAPTER XXI

AN UNLOOKED FOR RECEPTION

The night was dark as Dame Margery had said. The broken clouds that
flitted across the sky obscured the faint light of the stars that
struggled to peep through the nebulous masses. At another time the
superstitious spirit of the girl would have shrunk from the noises of the
wood, and found omens in the hoot of the owl, or the moaning of the wind
as it sobbed fitfully through the trees. But now the screech of th