Dame Agnes saved her conscience by the last clause, for gentle as Prince
Edmund had generally been, he was as capable of going into a genuine
Plantagenet passion as any of his more fiery brothers.

"But a maiden must be meeker and gentler?"

"Certes, Damosel," said Agnes, spinning away.

The child reclined in her chair for a time in silence. Perhaps it was
the suddenness of the next question which made the old lady drop her
distaff.

"Dame, who is Sir John de Wycliffe?"

The distaff had to be recovered before the question could be considered.

"Ask at Dame Joan, Lady," was the discreet reply.

"So I did; and she bade me ask at thee."

"A priest, methinks," said Agnes vaguely.

"Why, I knew that," answered the child. "But what did he, or held he?--
for 'tis somewhat naughty, folk say."

"If it be somewhat naughty, Lady Custance, you should not seek to know
it."

"But my Lady my mother wagged her head, though she spake not. So I want
to know."

"Then your best way, Damosel," suggested the troubled Agnes, "were to
ask at her Grace."

"I did ask at her."

"And what said she?"

"She said she would tell me another day. But I want to know now."

"Her Grace's answer might have served you, Lady."

"It did not serve Ned. He said he would know. And so will I."

"The Lord Edward is two years your elder, Lady."

"Truth," said the child shrewdly, "and you be sixty years mine elder, so
you should know more than he by thirty."

Agnes could not help smiling, but she was sadly perplexed how to dismiss
the unwelcome topic.

"Let be. If thou wilt not tell me, I will blandish some that will.
There be other beside thee in the university [world, universe].--What is
yonder bruit?" [a noise.]

It was little Maude, flying in frantic terror, with Parnel in hot
pursuit, both too much absorbed to note in what direction they were
running. The cause was not far to seek.

After Maude had recovered from the effects of her exposure in the
forest, she lighted unexpectedly on the little flat parcel which her
mother had charged her to keep. It was carefully sewn up in linen, and
the sewing cost Maude some trouble to penetrate. She reached the core
at last. It was something thin and flat, with curious black and red
patterns all over it. This would have been the child's description. It
was, in truth, a vellum leaf of a manuscript, elaborately written, but
not illuminated, unless capitals in red ink can be termed