came fast enough, but ere ever he fell, for
that steel shirt of his was strong, Jeffrey, lying low on his horse's
neck, was safe away, and though the murderers followed hard they never
caught him.

Nor, though they searched for days, could they find him at Shefton or
elsewhere, for Jeffrey, who knew that all roads were blocked, and who
dared not venture home, doubling like a hare across country, had won
down to the water, where a ship lay foreign bound, and by dawn was on
the sea.

CHAPTER III

A WEDDING

About noon of the day after that upon which Sir John had come to his
death, Cicely Foterell sat at her meal in Shefton Hall. Not much of the
rough midwinter fare passed her lips, for she was ill at ease. The man
she loved had been dismissed from her because his fortunes were on the
wane, and her father had gone upon a journey which she felt, rather than
knew, to be very dangerous. The great old hall was lonesome, also, for a
young girl who had no comrades near. Sitting there in the big room, she
bethought her how different it had been in her childhood, before some
foul sickness, of which she knew not the name or nature, had swept
away her mother, her two brothers, and her sister all in a single week,
leaving her untouched. Then there were merry voices about the house
where now was silence, and she alone, with naught bout a spaniel dog for
company. Also most of the men were away with the wains laden with the
year's clip of wool, which her father had held until the price had
heightened, nor in this snow would they be back for another week, or
perhaps longer.

Oh! her heart was heavy as the winter clouds without, and young and fair
as she might be, almost she wished that she had gone when her brothers
went, and found her peace.

To cheer her spirits she drank from a cup of spiced ale, that the
manservant had placed beside her covered with a napkin, and was glad
of its warmth and comfort. Just then the door opened, and her
foster-mother, Mrs. Stower, entered. She was still a handsome woman in
her prime, for her husband had been carried off by a fever when she was
but nineteen, and her baby with him, whereon she had been brought to
the Hall to nurse Cicely, whose mother was very ill after her birth.
Moreover, she was tall and dark, with black and flashing eyes, for her
father had been a Spaniard of gentle birth, and, it was said, gypsy
blood ran in her mother's veins.

There were but two people in the world fo