She turned white and started to push her
way out of the crowd, but those behind her joined hands, laughing and
shouting: "A queen--a queen!"

Two or three stout fellows from just beneath the pillory elbowed their
way to her side and grasped her arms.

She struggled and shrieked in affright.

Phoebe with indignant face seized the arm of the man nearest her and
pulled lustily to free her sister.

"Stand aside, you knaves!" she cried, hotly. "Know your betters and keep
your greasy hands for the sluttish queans of Southwark streets!"

The lads only grinned and tightened their hold. Rebecca was struggling
fiercely and in silence, save for an occasional shriek of fear.

Phoebe raised her voice.

"Good people, will ye see a lady tousled by knavish street brawlers!
What ho--a rescue--a Burton--a Burton--a rescue--ho!"

Her voice rose high above the coarse laughter and chatter of the crowd.

"What's this? Who calls?"

The crowd parted to right and left with screams and imprecations, and on
a sudden two horsemen reined up their steeds beside the sisters.

"Back, ye knaves! Unhand the lady!" cried the younger of the two,
striking out with his whip at the heads of Rebecca's captors.

Putting up their hands to ward off these blows, the fellows hastily
retreated a few steps, leaving Rebecca and Phoebe standing alone.

"What's here!" cried the young man. "God warn us, an it be not fair
Mistress Burton herself!"

He leaped from his horse, and with the bridle in one hand and his
high-crowned hat in the other, he advanced, bowing toward the sisters.

He was a strongly built young man of middle height. His smooth face,
broad brow, and pleasant eyes were lighted up by a happy smile wherein
were shown a set of strong white teeth all too rare in the England of
his time. His abundant blond hair was cut short on top, but hung down on
each side, curling slightly over his ears. He wore a full-skirted,
long-sleeved jerkin secured by a long row of many small buttons down the
front. A loose lace collar lay flat over his shoulders and chest. His
French hose was black, and from the tops of his riding-boots there
protruded an edging of white lace.

He wore a long sword with a plain scabbard and hilt, and on his hands
were black gloves, well scented.

Phoebe's face wore a smile of pleased recognition, and she stretched
forth her right hand as the cavalier approached.

"You come in good time, Sir Guy!" she said.

"In very sooth, m