all the grown-up persons of the establishment--knights, squires,
grooms, scullions, and females of every degree--had thronged round
them, but parted at her approach, though one of the knights said,
"Nay, Lady Countess, 'tis no sight for you. The poor little maid is
dead, or nigh upon it."

"But who is it? What is it?" asked the Countess, still advancing.

A confused medley of voices replied, "The Lord of Whitburn's little
wench--Leonard Copeland--gunpowder."

"And no marvel," said a sturdy, begrimed figure, "if the malapert
young gentles be let to run all over the courts, and handle that with
which they have no concern, lads and wenches alike."

"Nay, how can I stop it when my lady will not have the maidens kept
ever at their distaffs and needles in seemly fashion," cried a small
but stout and self-assertive dame, known as "Mother of the Maidens,"
then starting, "Oh! my lady, I crave your pardon, I knew not you were
in this coil! And if the men-at-arms be let to have their perilous
goods strewn all over the place, no wonder at any mishap."

"Do not wrangle about the cause," said the Countess. "Who is hurt?
How much?"

The crowd parted enough for her to make way to where a girl of about
ten was lying prostrate and bleeding with her head on a woman's lap.

"Poor maid," was the cry, "poor maid! 'Tis all over with her. It
will go ill with young Leonard Copeland."