Chapter IV: Part 4

"You did; I was there with my mother. My tale is not so very unlike your own. I am Lady Katharine Hyde. My father was Lord Hyde, of Estly Court; but he has been dead a year, and my uncle, the earl of Harcourt, has taken me away from my mother and little brother Guy, and brought me here to try and cure me of the heresy my mother taught me. I have heard that his orders were to use pleasant means at first for my conversion; but if at the end of six months I still prove obstinate, I am to be given up entirely to her tender mercies. So they allow me now to walk for a while every day in the garden; but I don't suppose that favor will be granted long, and then I shall be completely caged, unless I do like my friend, the robin--when I am frightened, fly over the wall."

"That were a feat I should hardly imagine your ladyship performing," replied Geoffrey, glancing up at the massive stone-work, and then at the lady's not very sylph-like form.

"Ah!" said Katharine, shaking her head, "there are other ways of flying beside going over yon mountain of stone. I have many plans working in my brain, and what have I else to do in this weary cage, but think how I may best break the bars? They called me Kate the Quick-Witted at home, and it will be hard but that I shall deserve the name here also."

"God give you good success," sighed the young Lollard; "but when you shall be free, I pray you sometimes to give a thought to the two forest boys shut up in a gloomy dungeon, or perhaps lying in a bloody grave."

"Hush, hush! master Geoffrey," said Lady Katharine, dashing away a tear from her bright eyes, and then relapsing into her merry mood. "Lollards are hard to catch, and harder to keep, and I promise you I will not go forth alone. Since they have made us companions in captivity, we will see if we cannot be the same in freedom. And now I mind me of it, my mother told me a long tale about our being of some kin in a mingled sort of way, but I, giddy girl, paid little heed. So we are in some sort cousins, Geoffrey, and now that I have set you the good example, see that you call me Katharine, or better still, Kate, on peril of my displeasure. But how came you here in this old cell? I did not think that Mother Beatrice would put a companion for me in any place having communication with this garden, her own private one."

The boy began to tell her about the old door he had broken down, and about the parchments; but just then the convent-bell clanged, Lady Katharine sprang to her feet, and saying hurriedly that the abbess would be there in a moment, went off down the walk, while Geoffrey as instantly retreated to his own cell. He found Hubert very anxious to know what was the matter, for he had heard the voices, but, faithful to his trust, he had remained watching the door, as his brother commanded. He was of course very much interested in the history of their fellow-prisoner, and delighted to hear that they had at least one friend, however helpless, in their prison.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

_*Remorse and its Effects.*_

Mother Superior of Our Lady's Convent did not think it best to press an examination on her prisoners, or attempt any active measures for their conversion, until their hot heads had had time to cool in the damps of their dungeon, and their obstinacy had been overcome by hunger and solitude. She then hoped to find them quite willing to obtain their liberty by recantation, and to purchase her favor by the betrayal of their secrets; but she little knew the characters with which she had to deal.

Boys who are thrown wholly on their own resources, and forced to act for themselves, in stirring and dangerous times, soon grow up to manhood in mind, if not in body. Geoffrey had been bred up in habits of self-denial, and inured to every kind of hardship, and was besides possessed of a disposition of that unyielding nature which, when guided by reason and exerted in a right direction, we call firmness, but when uncontrolled and directed to merely trifling things, we denominate obstinacy. His was a spirit which is as much strengthened by persecution as fire by oil; it only roused him to a fiercer action. He could meet defiance by defiance, and taunt with taunt; and Lollardism having been once assumed, there was little danger that it would be ever thrown aside, unless it might be weakened by a long course of prosperity.

Hubert was equally invincible, but his armor was of a different kind. He had neither the power of body or mind which his brother possessed, but in his very weakness lay his greater strength. His delicate health had caused him from his earliest childhood to receive many indulgences which his brother had been taught to scorn, and he had early learned to prefer the chimney-corner and the crabbed letters of an old manuscript, to the pleasures of the chase. Had no new principle been awakened within him, he would, most probably, have become effeminate; but it was not so. The doctrines which he had learned from Lollard preaching, and the fragments he possessed of the Bible, had become a part of his very being, and endued his tender spirit with that supernatural courage which is far more difficult to conquer than mere physical bravery. His mind was so thoroughly imbued with holy thoughts and heavenly aspirations, that earth could offer him few temptations, while heaven seemed to him so near and real, that dangers were but lightly regarded.

Notwithstanding all this, their prison-life began to tell upon them both. They had been so long accustomed to out-door life and abundant exercise, that the damp and confined air of their dungeon soon banished the color from their cheeks, and made them almost loathe their coarse fare. Then Kate's quick wit showed itself to some purpose.

"It is a foul shame," she said, during one of their conversations at the window, as she noticed Hubert pressing his face to the bars as though struggling to get as near as possible to the fresh morning air; "it is a foul shame to keep two such young eaglets chained to a rock. This window is not so small; if it were not for the bars, we might pass through, and you might exercise in the garden at night. Let us see: I venture these irons are none of the strongest; see how the rust has eaten them."

This thought inspired them with renewed vigor, and they began to test each bar by a vigorous blow. One yielded almost instantly, and another, after a few efforts; but the rest were still immovable, in spite of the pushes and pulls from Kate and Geoffrey, one working on each side. At last the latter bethought him of the bolts on the broken door. He soon wrenched them from the decayed wood, and brought them to the window. One they used as a lever, and another, which was a pointed bit of metal, Hubert sharpened, by rubbing on the stones, to pick out the mortar. This furnished occupation and amusement for all three for many days, for there were only certain hours when they could work without fear of interruption, and many and merry were the conversations that took place. The boys described to their young companion Forest Tower and their retreat on the cliffs, and she in her turn told them stories of her home at Estly Court, near London, of her little brother Guy, and her sweet, loving mother. She told how delighted lady Eleanor would be to welcome them, and how tenderly she would nurse Hubert when his head ached so badly. In the account of Charles Bertrand, she appeared very much interested.

"If he is only safe, and knew what had become of you," she observed, "he might work outside, while we arranged matters within. It would do us small good if we were this moment in yonder forest, if we had no one to help us on our journey. That was what I could not think how to manage; there was never a garrison yet that had not one traitor at least in its midst, if one only knows rightly how to influence him; and I think I know of one or two in this convent whom Mother Beatrice has not yet turned into stone and built up into the walls."

But meanwhile, what had become of the faithful Bertrand?

Remembering well his young master's orders, as soon as the soldiers had retired, he came out of his hiding place, and, having done what he could for poor old Humphrey Singleton, he set about sending information of the boys' capture to their father. He, however, found that the Lollard communications had been much interrupted lately, and that it would be necessary for him to go himself and carry the message.

He and De Forest, with other refugees, consulted together concerning the best means of escape. Sir John determined to forsake his unhappy country, and dwell, for a time at least, in Denmark or Germany. He decided that in the early spring he would go to London, in hopes that his sons might meet him there, and then all flee together. Bertrand was to try and find out where the children had been carried, to wander round in disguise, and, if possible, open communication with them. All the details were left to his own inventive powers.

He therefore returned to York, entering it one snowy winter's evening, footsore and weary, and not a little despondent. His disguise was that of a minstrel, as best calculated to give him admittance into various places where he might chance to hear somewhat of the objects of his search. He was a tolerable performer on the crwth, or Welsh violin, an accomplishment he had picked up in the course of his wanderings, and he was glad to be able to turn it to such good account.

So far he had been entirely unsuccessful, and cold, wet, and hungry, his chief desire was to find some inn or hostelry where he might obtain refreshment. He turned into one of the humblest, as befitting his station, and approached the fire, where a dozen rough-looking men were drinking beer and cracking low jokes with each other, accompanying each with a round oath and a burst of laughter. It seemed that most of their witticisms were directed toward one of their number, who either could not or would not reply, but sat in moody silence, with his back partly turned to the company, drinking an immense quantity of beer, perhaps with the hope of getting himself into a better humor.

"Now, by our Lady," said one, "I tell you Dick has cracked his pate."

"By the mass," said another, "he acts just like my dog that ran mad, last year; he refuses his victuals, can't stay still a minute, and snaps at the hand of his best friends."

"And he won't fight," said one long-legged fellow who sat cleaning his sword and patting it affectionately; "he, who used to go into a quarrel as a child goes to a show, with a hop, skip, and jump. Hola! Sir Minstrel, sing us a song of the wars of king Harry, to put a little spirit into yon lazy dog, who has grown afraid of his own cross-bow."

"By your leave, my merry masters," said Bertrand, "I will first put a little spirit into myself; I am as wet as though I had swam across the German ocean." So saying, he drew a stool up to the cheerful blaze, and raised an immense leathern flagon to his lips.

At the sound of his voice, the persecuted individual in the corner turned around suddenly; but the stranger's face was buried in his drinking-cup, and he soon relapsed into his former state.

"So, so, friend, feed first, and sing afterward; take a good pull at the liquor, and then sing us a song of Dick Redwood, the coward who trembles at his own footsteps."

Dick here turned round somewhat fiercely, and muttered: "I can fight, ye know that well enough, ye fools; there's not an arm here or in Yorkshire that can swing a battle-axe like mine. Would'st thou see if it is any weaker than it was when it tossed Gaspard, the Frenchman, over the wall, like a ball out of a culverin? Look!" and the man bared the muscular limb, and thrust it under his companion's nose.

"Ay, ay, he can fight; see that?" said one of the men, with a shout of mocking laughter.

"True, with a cat," said the tormentor coolly, laying down the sword and taking up a corselet, which he proceeded to rub with the most perfect indifference to the gathering rage of his victim, who at length burst out, his voice trembling with rage:

"Knave, thou liest! down on thy knees, or I will shake every bone from thy carrion body! Down, like a dog, as thou art!"

The man shook the other's grasp from his collar, and, stepping back a pace or two, cried: "I recant! I recant! Hear all! I take back what I said touching the most worshipful master Dick Redwood, having therein uttered a foul lie, and do positively affirm that he cannot fight with a cat, except the poor animal be somewhat weak in the legs."

Amid the roar of merriment which followed this sally, the infuriated man seized a huge cleaver, and swinging it round his head as though it were a feather, soon cleared a circle around him, and was about to spring on his tormentor, who was somewhat alarmed at the spirit his taunts had at last aroused, and all dreaded a combat with a man whose personal prowess had been undisputed before this unnatural sullen fit had come over him.

There was a death-like pause; then suddenly the eye of the soldier fell on the minstrel. The change that one look caused in him was marvellous. The color fled from his inflamed face, his eyes stared wildly, his limbs seemed scarcely able to sustain him, and the arm wielding the weapon dropped nerveless at his side. He put his hands to his brow, and muttered something of fiends pursuing him, and blood on his head, and then with one bound he cleared the circle, and dashed out of the door into the darkness.

"I told you he was mad, Tom Jennet. Why did you hunt him so? He is crazed no doubt, by a fall he had over the cliffs some weeks ago, and has been strange ever since. Come, Sir Minstrel, now for your song, to drive this crack-brained fellow from our thoughts."

But when they turned to look for the minstrel, he was gone. He had slipped out unperceived, and was making his way as rapidly as possible through the muddy streets, only intent on putting as great a distance as possible between him and the madman, whom he had instantly known as the great enemy of his master's house, and who, he found, remembered him.

He had gone, however, but a few rods when he was stopped by a heavy hand laid on his shoulder; it was the Captain's voice that sounded in his ear.

"Hold! I am a friend; be silent and follow me. God and our Lady know I mean you no harm, but may tell you that which will be to your advantage."

Bertrand was very much surprised; but resolving to see the adventure to an end, followed his strange conductor in perfect silence through many narrow and crooked streets, to another hostelry, meaner than the one they had just left. The room was quite deserted, but the soldier drew him into the darkest corner and called for liquor. For some moments he did not speak, and Bertrand's curiosity had been raised to its highest pitch before it was satisfied.

"It is all along of my wife Joan," began the Captain at last, with the air of a man forced by some dreaded power to do something much against his will. "You know who I am--everybody knows me, I think, and calls me coward. He saved me, and I sold them, and the demons are on my track. My wife Joan says it is all the wind; but can I not hear? am I not all ears for their horrible mockings? One of them will creep around my bed at night when all is still, and come up close to me, and then shriek, 'Judas! we have found our Judas again!' and then shake great bags of gold before me, and laugh so devilishly. 'Ay, Dick,' they say, 'thou art one of us now; thou makest a famous Judas! He sold the One who died for him, for only thirty pieces, but thou hast an hundred.' Then they yell, and dance, and shout again and again: 'Hail, Judas! King of the Ingrates!'"

The soldier paused to wipe his damp brow, then continued, his voice lower and hoarser than before:

"Yestermorn I was wandering by the shore--the demons make me wander far and wide; as I was thinking, I picked up something at my feet--_it was an oak branch_! I tossed it into the sea, for it burnt my hand. But, look you, comrade! the waves mocked me, and threw it back at my feet, and then they laughed and shrieked: 'We know thee, Judas!' Even as I went back, I met two innocent-faced boys, but they kept the other side of the way, and methinks they shouted 'Judas!' also, but I ran on.

"So then I told Joan, for I could no longer contain, and she bade me seek you out, and without delay try to free the lads, and then, mayhap, the fiends will leave me."

"In truth, man, I marvel not at the demons," said Bertrand; "but now, if thou really wishest to undo thy devil's work, we are well met. I am fully purposed to bring my master's sons out of their dungeon, or be put in one myself."

"Come on then, for the love of heaven," said Dick, rising, and pulling his companion by the mantle. "Come on to my wife Joan; she is as quick with her mind as with her body; she will tell us what to do, and we will cheat the devils yet."

They passed out of the city gates into the open country beyond, the soldier striding along at a pace which would have been too much for his already wearied companion, had not the renewed hope, and prospect of assistance where he had least expected it, excited him, so as to make him almost forget his fatigue. They discussed the whole situation of affairs as they went along, and Dick at first seemed much relieved, but presently his voice sank to the old hoarse whisper.

"What if it is _too late_! TOO LATE! Judas repented, Judas went and flung the pieces down, and tried to save Him, but the blood was on his head and on his children's! You see I know it all; the old man read it out of a book that night I was watching, and then the little one told the whole story upon the cliff. The blood is on my head, I tell you, and if I cannot save them, I shall do as Judas did. I will! I must!"

Bertrand strove to calm the agitated man by preaching to him some of the Lollard doctrines, but found his memory much at fault, and he longed for either his young or his old master to pour the balm of consolation into the heart of this their former enemy, whom he had begun to pity sincerely. But this talk served to beguile the time, till they arrived at a lonely cottage in the forest. A light twinkled in the window to welcome them, and both were glad to enter the cheerful-looking room, and warm themselves at the bright fire.

Joan had a warm supper ready for her husband, though it was quite late, and she was glad to divide it with the man whom she thought most able to help her husband in his distress. She was what might be called a picture of comfort, for the middling class of those times.

She was dressed in petticoat of dark blue cloth, surmounted by a waist or bodice of crimson, that showed in full perfection her well-rounded form. Above this again was a snowy kerchief and cap, so jauntily arranged as to display to the best advantage the clean white skin of her throat and neck, and the brilliant bloom of her round fat cheeks. A pair of bright black eyes looked out over a rather short nose, somewhat on the retrousse order, unless when she happened to laugh, when the visual orbs disappeared, and you became rather interested in her well-set teeth, which she took care should every one appear.

On a solid oaken table, which she drew as close as possible to the fire, she spread a steaming supper, talking all the while, as she moved from the board to the fire, sometimes to her husband, sometimes to his guest, and sometimes to the cooking utensils, the fire, or the meat.

"There!" as she set down one smoking dish before Bertrand's hungry gaze; "there's not such another pair of hares in the county. Lie still on your backs, ye fools; lie still, I say, like Christians! Little Dick caught them himself, with his new net, in the forest."

At the sound of his name, up popped a little black head, from a bed on the floor in the farthest corner.

"Ay, father, that net is a brave one; I will have two pair the morn!"

"Down with your head, ye saucy brat!" said his mother, making a pretense of throwing at his head the gridiron she had just taken from the fire. "Whist! ye little fool! would'st have Moll and Meg awake, and clamoring for supper? Be still, and there'll be a bone for you the morn."

The child's head disappeared, and she continued apologetically, "The naughty lad said he would not sleep till he saw his dad, the brats are so fond of their father; but I did not think the little fool would keep his word;" and the good dame put her hands on her hips, the gridiron still in one hand, and a long wooden spoon in the other, and laughed at her son's disobedience, before she could go on dishing out the meal.

She then turned to the dogs, who were lying under the table. "Out, ye brutes! away, ye hounds! ye had no share in catching the game, and ye shall have none of the meat." But even as she spoke, she belied her words, by throwing them some very liberal bones.

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband at last; "the meat is good, but the sauce tasteless; we have other business on hand to-night!"

"And ye'll have no business done except I help you," she replied, not in the least cast down by the rebuff. "There was never a matter yet, but it was made or marred by a woman. If ye will not go my way, I will have naught to do with it. Eat your fill, and sleep your fill, then in the morn ye shall talk your fill, for then your heads are clearest. Ye may well trust to me, for from me ye get your victuals, and, as the proverb says: 'Always keep friends with the larder.' Yon lazy loon has not brought me enough meat to feed the cat these many days, with all his dreams and vagaries; but he had better bestir himself at daybreak, if ye want a breakfast, for it is hard getting a meal out of an empty cupboard, not to mention that I would not give it to you if I could, seeing ye will not work."

All this was said in as harsh a tone as the good dame could possibly force herself to use; for though she tried to make it appear that she was cross and stingy, she was the most liberal provider, as she was the most absolutely good-natured little woman in all the big county of York.

*CHAPTER XV.*

_*Plots and Counterplots.*_

Christmas had come and gone without bringing any change to the prisoners, except that they saw less and less of Lady Katharine, whom the abbess, using as an excuse the severity of the weather, confined more and more to the house. But all this served only to excite the quick-witted Kate to renewed exertion, and day and night she planned and schemed how she might best free herself and friends. Her bright face and lively manners, as well as the genuine sympathy and kindness she showed to those around her, had endeared her to all with whom she came in contact--all except the head of the house.

Mother Beatrice decidedly disliked and perhaps feared her. She felt that the girl read her character, mocked her pretensions, and was ever on the watch to thwart her plans. She was in her way decidedly, in more senses than one. She had long hoped, by the influence of Lord Hardwick, either to increase the splendor and power of her present convent, or to be removed to a less secluded one near London; and as she knew him to be very fond of his niece, however anxious he might be for her conversion, she did not dare to use harsh measures toward the willful girl, who was setting a dreadful example to the simple nuns, and did not seem inclined to abandon a single one of her heretical notions. Such a grand conquest, too, as it would be if she could only subdue her! She was very matter-of-fact, and not much given to indulge in day-dreams; nevertheless she had caught herself more than once imagining the time when the noble Lady Katharine Hyde should bow her proud head to receive at her hands the black veil of the order, while Earl Hardwick was in the little parlor signing the deeds of conveyance of the whole estate to the Convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows.

But Mother Beatrice would have felt even less secure had she known what was going on in her own proper domain. She had not dared to seclude the young girl from all society, but she did not know how well acquainted she had become with all the sisters, and how she was using them for her own purposes. The little plotter was trying, as she had told Geoffrey, to find the weak spot in the citadel, and she believed she had at length discovered it.

If the one who guards the gate can be won over to the side of the enemy, there is little hope for the garrison, however strong; and though Lady Katharine could make no impression on deaf old Ursula, who wielded her symbols of office with as much authority as the mother superior herself, yet in the person of the assistant who had been granted her on account of her infirmity, she found an excellent point of attack.

The convent porteress was not a nun, for it was her business to attend to all the out-door affairs, and thus keep up that connection between the recluses and the world they had abandoned which was necessary and convenient. It was her duty to purchase stores of provisions and clothing, to attend to the poor who came regularly to the door to receive their dole of charity, and to see that the tenantry of the convent lands paid their dues.

The young girl who assisted her in these often arduous tasks, and who hoped some time to take her place when sister Ursula had exchanged her seat in the entrance-gate for a more quiet resting-place in the crypt of the convent church, was the eldest daughter of dame Joan Redwood, a buxom lass of twenty summers, who had inherited much of her mother's good nature, but very little of her good sense. She was not a little superstitious, and very vain. Although the dress she wore was not entirely conventual, it gave no opportunity for displaying trinkets or bright colors; yet she loved nothing better than to gather a little store of bright kerchiefs and ribbons, in which she arrayed herself when quite alone, and marched up and down her little cell with the greatest complacency, though she never dared carry it any farther.

This had not escaped Kate's quick eyes, and she laid her plot accordingly. She surprised her one day when making her finest toilet, and having first frightened her with the idea that she would immediately report it to the abbess, she soothed her by the gift of a necklace of red beads, and made her her devoted follower from that moment.

The next day being a market day, the first face that presented itself at the wicket of the convent-gate was dame Redwood herself. She was standing beside a sturdy little pony, half hidden by two enormous panniers.

Her daughter's face was covered with blushes, caused partly by pleasure, and partly by the fear of a certain good-natured sort of scolding, which the dame thought it her duty to bestow whenever she had not seen any of her children for a time. She therefore put on her most demure look, and smoothed every fold in her apron before she descended from her post of observation to open the gate.

"A laggard as usual!" said the dame, shaking the snow from her wooden shoes, and running her quick little eyes all over her daughter's person to find the next best point of attack; and before they had gone far they encountered Lady Katharine's present, which the vain girl had put on under her kerchief, but had not sufficiently concealed. She pounced upon it, greatly to poor Phoebe's confusion.

"Ye idle spendthrift!" she said, "ye have been spending the half-noble your father gave ye for your new kirtle on these follies, have ye? Then ye shall go barebacked for all he shall ever give ye again!"

"Nay, mother, do not be angry; the half-noble is safe in the green purse. These are a gift from a noble lady, oh! so beautiful! and she is shut up here because she is a heretic. I don't know what that is, but she seems to me as good as the mother herself."

Now, mistress Redwood's errand to the convent, though ostensibly to sell her eggs, cheese, and milk to the cook, was really to find out what was going on in the house where the prisoners were confined, how they were treated, and, if possible, to open communication with them; thus fulfilling her contract with her husband and Bertrand, who having eaten and slept, had concluded, very wisely, to leave the first steps of the undertaking entirely to her. She did not wish to question her daughter directly, for fear of being overheard, or her remarks repeated; but she knew Phoebe very well, and was well aware that but little pressing was necessary to make her tell all she knew on the subject. She was a little surprised to hear that there was another Lollard prisoner there, and wished to find out something more about her; so she tossed up her head with an air of incredulity.

"A pretty young lady, indeed! That is a story for old folks, not me. And where should a pretty young lady in Our Lady's convent get red bead necklaces to throw around to whoever will pick them up? Tell me where you got it, Phoebe, and I'll not be hard on you."

"I said but the truth, mother--I did, indeed," said poor Phoebe, only bent on proving her innocence, and, forgetting a strict rule which forbade what was seen or heard indoors being repeated without, she told her mother--for the latter still appeared incredulous--all she knew of Lady Katharine Hyde. She also told her, in the hope of distracting attention from the subject in hand, about the arrival of the two heretic boys who were said to have done very wicked things, and were shut up safely in the dungeon under the east tower.

The dame was getting the very information she most wanted, so she demanded, forgetting her caution: "And have ye seen the lads? And is one pale and sickly, with light hair?"

"Nay, mother, I cannot tell: Sister Ursula never sends me with their food. I only saw them the day father brought them here, and then there were so many in the court-yard, and such a trampling of horses, and I had to bring so many tankards of beer for the soldiers, that I minded naught beside."

At this moment there was another summons at the gate, and when Phoebe had opened it a poor woman entered, bearing in her arms a sick baby, and leading by the hand a miserable-looking child just able to walk. They had come for medical assistance from the nuns, who were famous as leeches in those days. A few moments after one of the nuns appeared with Lady Katharine, who was herself well skilled in the art for one of her age, as it was then every lady's duty to be able to order, as well as prepare, the simple medicines then in use, for her family and peasantry; and this was a part of the education which a convent was expected to bestow on those brought up within its walls.

While the two were standing behind the grated window where they received all such applications, Lady Katharine's eyes were wandering round the busy scene in the court-yard, whose occupants had been increased by the arrival of other peasants--some beggars, more sick. This little glimpse of the world was a rare favor for her, and a great treat, so she resolved to make the most of it. Sister Agnes was deaf herself, and was talking to a deaf old woman, so she felt wonderfully at liberty. She noticed dame Redwood, and with her natural quick perception of character determined that she was a person she could trust. In a moment she had devised a plan of operations. She called to her a little child who was standing near.

"Dost thou see yonder stout woman, little one, standing by the gray pony?"

"Ay, lady," said the child; "she is talking to my mother."

"Then run and tell her I have somewhat for the pain in her back."

When her astonished patient came at the summons, she drew her to the farthest corner of the window.

"Good woman, are you a mother?"

The woman looked down at the bright face, now pale with excitement, which was lifted up so beseechingly to her, and a tear glistened in her black eyes, for she easily recognized her from her daughter's story.

"Ay, lady, that am I. Two knaves and two lassies at home, beside a well-grown wench that serves here under Sister Ursula."

"Are you Phoebe's mother? Oh! then think how you would long to see her or the others, if they were shut up in a dreary castle far away from you and all that love them! Would not your heart be very sad for them, and would not you pray to God that some one in that distant place might be kind to them, help them in their troubles, and nurse them when they were sick?"

"That would I, indeed!" said the dame, her motherly heart quite overflowing at this appeal; "and none the less gladly would I help them, lady," she continued, lowering her voice, "if they are of the new faith, for by our Lady, I think not so much of the old as I did a few weeks ago."

"Say you so?" said the young girl joyfully. "Then I have found the very friend I want; but it is not so much for myself that I need your aid as for two poor lads who are shut up here. One is sick, and cannot eat the food they give them, though even that is little enough, and I fear he will die here all alone. He has no mother, but only a father, who knows not what has become of his children."

"Can you see them and talk with them, lady?"

"Not so often as I used; they watch me more closely. It is through great danger that, when I walk in the garden, I can speak to them at a window." She went on to tell her in as few words as possible, how they had become acquainted, for she feared interruption, and she received in reply the welcome news that Bertrand was actually at her cottage plotting their release.

"I will bring the best I have for the poor child to-morrow," said the dame; "but how shall I get leave to see you, lady, when I come?"

"Might not the pain in your back be rather worse to-morrow morn?" replied Lady Katharine mischievously, "and who but Kate Hyde can fit a plaster for it? See also that you bring a bottle for the medicine."

"Hear her now!" laughed the merry dame, delighted at this little bit of diplomacy. "Thou'lt never die for want of wit to know the way to live. The saints preserve me, but the pain shall be bad enough, and the bottle big enough, and the holy Mother Beatrice none the wiser for the business. And be sure, pretty lady, that naught would cure a pain in my back, if I had one in earnest, so soon as carrying you on it out of this dismal place."

The plotters were now obliged to separate, but each retired well pleased with her interview.

As for Lady Katharine, she could hardly conceal her triumph as she took her tapestry frame and sat down as demurely as possible at the Mother Superior's side in the convent parlor. "There!" she said to herself as she stitched away diligently at the eyes of a St. George whom she was trying to make look fiercely at a flaming dragon which lay, as yet, only in outline, at his feet. "There now! I have found out not only a weak point in the garrison, but a standpoint beyond; and what with friends within and friends without, and a messenger to go between the two, out upon you for a silly thing, Kate Hyde, if with all this you cannot balk Mother Beatrice in all her well-laid plans!"

*CHAPTER XVI.*

_*The Convent Ghost.*_

Dame Redwood hastened home with light panniers and a lighter heart; and so eager was she to tell her tale, that she made poor pony trot at a rate to which his old legs were quite unaccustomed. When she entered the cottage door and presented herself to her husband and his guest, her cheeks were several shades rosier than usual with exercise and excitement. Nevertheless, she would not vouchsafe them a word till she had scolded the children all round, brushed up the hearth, and put the dinner on the fire; after which she began, but would always stop at the most interesting points in her story to stir the porridge, or drive the dogs from the door. The little woman felt her importance, and was determined to make the most of it.

"Was ever man so plagued by woman!" was poor Dick's exclamation when she went off to get some water just as she had begun to tell how the boys had broken through the old door in their dungeon.

"Now there is an ungrateful man!" said the dame on her return. "Better say, never was man better served by woman. What would ye have done, I'd like to know, if it had been left in your hands? Ye would have blurted it out at the gate, and had the whole convent at your heels. I warrant ye would never have come home with whole bones, let alone the knowledge ye were seeking."

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband impatiently. "Where did you say was the door the lad broke through?"

When she had told him he sat for a moment in deep thought, then brought his great fist down on the table with a blow which made every platter on the shelves rattle.

"How now, man!" said his wife with a start. "Wouldst thou bring the house down around our ears?"

"I mind not of the house now," he replied eagerly; "but this I know--if they are in the dungeon under the east tower, and have opened the door into the old cellarer's vault, by our Lady, there is not ten feet of solid earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am Dick Redwood!"

Both of his auditors were much surprised at this sudden declaration, and the dame even forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity.

"Twenty-five years ago," continued the soldier, turning to his guest, "before ever I knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready for a light job that was well paid for, and knew how to hold my tongue about it when it was done. Often one would come to me and say: 'Dick, here is a bit of work and a noble for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at the end of the year thou shalt have another.' So I know many a thing about this country that few, if any, others do; but never did anything come to hand so well as this."

"How is it? Tell us now, for mercy's sake," said Bertrand as the soldier paused.

"Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in the old time, before Mother Beatrice's day, they led a different life at the convent from what they do now. But though the prioress was easy herself, she was not enough so for some of the sisters. They wanted to come out sometimes and take a walk in the woods by moonlight; so they got me and two others--dead and gone long ago in the French wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by one end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault, under the east tower, and by the other under the bank at the spring, where the convent wall runs along the edge of the precipice. It is many years now since they made the beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp, and when the new prioress came, all the nuns' fine walks were stopped; so I warrant you there is not one in the convent now who knows aught of it. If the way be not too much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk, in half an hour, from here straight into the lads' prison--that is, if they know how to open the door, for the spring is on the other side."

"We will see to that matter at once," cried Bertrand, rising and snatching his cap; and in a few moments they were striding along, as if on a race, down one of the forest paths. They went on for some time till they came almost directly under the grim-looking convent walls rising from the top of a steep bank. They could see plainly the spot where the entrance had been, but to their great chagrin, found it was impossible to try whether it were still there, for the drifting snow had been piled up in the little dell in such huge drifts that they had to abandon all hope of removing them.

This was a great disappointment, but they both knew that the only thing to do was to wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand determined to send word to Sir John of the state of affairs, and make what preparations he could for conveying them to London as soon as they could escape.

The next morning, there was an unwonted confusion in the ordinarily quiet convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. In spite of all the strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule, there was an audible hum of voices in the refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of delight, on every face. For what earthly power could keep still the tongues of fifty women, when such an excellent subject for gossip had arisen in their very midst? Some told the story one way, and some another, but one thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to several of the inmates of the convent the preceding night. Sister Hilda, who had fallen behind-hand with some aves and paters which had been given her by way of penance, had been in the chapel on her knees before the figure of the Virgin at midnight, and she declared that just as the last stroke of the bell died away, she lifted her head, and saw a very tall, white figure pass through the choir, and out at the door behind the altar. Sister Ann had been passing down the corridor leading to the infirmary, as it was her duty to watch Sister Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had brushed by her and passed up the tower stairway.

Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all, though she did not dare to relate the horrible encounter _she_ had had with the spectre, for reasons which will shortly appear. It was her duty to hand the great bunch of keys to the abbess every night, and on the preceding evening when she got into bed, she suddenly remembered that she had left the key of the garden-door hanging in its lock. In great terror lest her forgetfulness should draw upon her some severe punishment, she had stolen softly down-stairs to recover it before it should be found in the morning; but just as she came to the door and had taken the key out, a tall white figure approached, and laid a deathly cold hand on hers. She had shrieked with fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her life; and now the key could not be found anywhere. The prioress had not yet missed it--that was the only comfort; the weather was not pleasant enough to make the garden an agreeable resort, and it might be some days before she was disgraced, but it must come at last; so she did not care to give her experiences with the ghost.

When dame Redwood appeared at the grate to ask for the plaster Lady Katharine had been so kind as to promise her, she noticed her daughter's pale face, but was too much occupied with her particular business to ask her many questions. It seemed so long to her before the lady came that she feared lest something should have happened to prevent their meeting altogether; but at last she appeared, walking as demurely as Mother Beatrice herself. As soon as she was sure of being free from observation, however, she raised her hood and showed to the dame a face so expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the good woman could not help catching the infection.

"Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate, imitating the nuns' tone, "how is that emaciated back of thine to-day?"

Fortunately the dame never laughed very loud; she only screwed up her round face and shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and as soon as she had indulged in this irresistible fit of merriment, she answered:

"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as about the bottle you'll be asking, and here it is, and a little meat in this package, if you can hide so much."

"That can I," replied Kate, opening her cloak and showing some ingeniously arranged pockets. "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if for naught else. But here is another matter: do you think your good man could make another key like that? Phoebe told me he had replaced one once that had been lost, but that he needed a copy." Here she produced, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the identical key which had caused the poor under-porteress such trouble and fright. "It is the key of the garden-gate, and it is very necessary for my comfort that Mother Beatrice and I should each have a means of entrance there."

"The saints preserve me, lady! but how got you hold of a key that not even my Phoebe herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's permission? She has told me as much herself."

"Ah! I have a way," said Kate, her mouth twitching with fun; "and as to daring, I dare anything--for those I love," she added to herself; but the very thought sent a flush of color to her cheek, and moisture to her eye.

"As to the key," said the dame, turning it over and over in her hands, "it is as like as a twin to the one that opens the big oak chest at home. I know it well, for I have handled it now nigh upon forty years."

"That is good news," replied the young schemer. "I am to go into the garden to-day, but with Mother Beatrice. When she turns her back I think I can throw a string with a stone at the end over the east side, close by the tower turret. Could not Bertrand fasten the key to it then, so that I could draw it up at the next turn? They would not notice such a little thing from the windows."

This led to a full account of the hidden entrance, and when they parted, it was with the agreement that a note should be thrown over the wall by a string in case of any emergency, and, until Bertrand and Dick could clear out the passage, the prisoners should remain quiet, and be, above all, particular to excite no suspicion.

Mother Beatrice being now pretty well assured that her prisoners were subdued by hunger and long confinement, thought it high time to begin the work of their conversion, and on this very day she had sent Father Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to have a conversation with them.

When he entered the room it was afternoon, and some sunbeams which had lost their way among these grim walls and towers, shot through the grated window and rested on the face of a pale, thin boy, who was reclining on the straw in the corner, partly supported by the wall, while with his long, thin fingers he was braiding some straw into fancy shapes. Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin around him a tattered cloak in such a way as to keep off the cold air from the window. He sprang to his feet as the door opened, and placed himself as if for a shield in front of the sick child.

"Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk, softening his tones involuntarily at the sight of such suffering. He drew a wooden stool to the side of the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's high forehead with such a tender touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the moment disarmed.

"Thou art very ill, my son. Wouldst thou not like to leave this sad place and go out into the bright world? It is almost spring now--the flowers will soon be out in the woods."

The boy did not answer for a moment; he only gave a long, deep sigh, but it was such a longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's brow waxed dark with indignation, and he walked away toward the window to conceal his feelings.

"Ah! Father, if you had been a prisoner all these weary months, you would not ask that question."

"Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to kneel down here at my knee and confess thy sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the sunshine; for I think thou hast borne penance enough for all the wrong thou canst have committed, poor child!"

Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on his lips, but Hubert's quiet voice was already replying:

"I shrive me to God morning and evening, and Christ hath long since borne my penance. He only stands betwixt my God and me."

"How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding such opposition at the very outset. "So young, and a heretic already! Dost thou set thyself against the holy mother church and all her teachings?"

"By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!" Geoffrey burst out, no longer able to restrain himself, "your holy mother church hath showed herself but a sorry jade of a step-mother to us. What obedience do we owe to one who has robbed us of our home and our friends, and who thirsts for our blood? You had better choose another place to preach the papistrie in than this foul dungeon!"

"Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to bring you a message of peace, but you will make me turn it to one of wrath and justice. If you are old enough thus to brave authority, you are old enough for the rack to force from you more seemly speech."