med, is the head of the Countess's ladies. My news
is from the Netherlands.'

'Ill news?' Lucy asked.

'Sir Philip Sidney is sorely wounded in the fight before Zutphen, I grieve
to say.'

'Wounded!' Lucy repeated the word. '_Sore wounded!_' Then, in a voice so
low that it could scarcely be heard, she added, 'Dead! is he dead?'

'Nay, Madam; and we may hope for better tidings. For--'

He was interrupted here by the entrance of Mistress Crawley.

'Ill news!' she exclaimed. 'And who is there amongst us who dare be the
bearer of it to my lady? Not I, not I! Her heart will break if Sir Philip
is wounded and like to die.'

Several young maidens of Lady Pembroke's household had followed Mistress
Crawley into the hall, regardless of the reproof they knew they should
receive for venturing to do so.

'I cannot tell my lady--nay, I dare not!' Mistress Crawley said, wringing
her hands in despair.

'Here is the despatch which Sir Francis Walsingham has committed to me,'
the gentleman said. 'I crave pardon, but I must e'en take yonder seat. I
have ridden hard, and I am well-nigh exhausted,' he continued, as he threw
himself on one of the benches, and called for a cup of sack.

Lucy meanwhile stood motionless as a statue, her wet cloak clinging to her
slender figure, the hood falling back from her head, the long, damp tresses
of hair rippling over her shoulders.

'I will take the despatch to my lady,' she said, in a calm voice, 'if so be
I may be trusted to do so.'

[Illustration: THE BARON'S COURT, PENSHURST CASTLE.]

'Yes, yes!' Mistress Crawley said. 'Go--go, child, and I will follow with
burnt feathers and cordial when I think the news is told,' and Mistress
Crawley hurried away, the maidens scattering at her presence like a
flock of pigeons.

Lucy took the despatch from the hand of the exhausted messenger, and went
to perform her task.

Lady Pembroke was reading to her boy Will some passages from the _Arcadia_,
which, in leisure moments, she was condensing and revising, as a pleasant
recreation after the work of sorting the family letters and papers, and
deciding which to destroy and which to keep.

When Lucy tapped at the door, Will ran to open it.

Even the child was struck by the white face which he saw before him, and he
exclaimed,--

'Mistress Lucy is sick, mother.'

'No,' Lucy said, 'dear Madam,' as Lady Pembroke turned, and, seeing her,
rose hastily. 'No, Madam, I am not sick, but I bring you a desp