old nurse, she went down to the hall to receive him.

The grave, grizzled warrior had taken his seat on his cross-legged,
round-backed chair, and a boy of some twelve years old stood before
him, in a sullen attitude, one foot over the other, and his shoulder
held fast by a squire, while the motley crowd of retainers stood
behind.

There was a move at the entrance of the lady, and her husband rose,
came forward, and as he gave her the courteous kiss of greeting,
demanded, "What is all this coil? Is the little wench dead?"

"Nay, but I fear me she cannot live," was the answer.

"Will Dacre of Whitburn's maid? That's ill, poor child! How fell it
out?"

"That I know as little as you," was the answer. "I have been seeing
to the poor little maid's hurts."

Lord Salisbury placed her in the chair like his own. In point of
fact, she was Countess in her own right; he, Richard Nevil, had been
created Earl of Salisbury in her right on the death of her father,
the staunch warrior of Henry V. in the siege of Orleans.

"Speak out, Leonard Copeland," said the Earl. "What hast thou done?"

The boy only growled, "I never meant to hurt the maid."

"Speak to the point, sir," said Lord Salisbury sternly; "give