She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed through her cheeks.  Her black hair curled about her slender neck.  Her gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with creamy silk.  Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black.  In one hand she held a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock.  And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long afterward, like stars in a summer night.

Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.

“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of reproof, “where are thy manners?”

Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how.  If not a dream, this was certainly a princess—­and perchance—­his heart leaped up—­perchance she came to set him free!  He wondered who had told her of him?  Diccon Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he died, last Michaelmas.  Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had heard.  Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother.  No, it could not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if carriers were much acquainted at court.

Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.

“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very pretty fellow!  Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy!  Why wilt thou be so bad and break my father’s heart?”

“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick.  “Pr’ythee, who is thy father, Mistress Princess?”

“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess.  I am Cicely Carew.”

“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists.  “Art thou the daughter of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?”

“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch.  “Thou shalt not say that—­I will not speak with thee at all!”

“I do na care!  If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest man in the world!”

“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot.  “How darest thou say such a thing?”

“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in his arm against the wall.

The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, coming into the room, touched him on the arm.  “There,” she said soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little dog that was hurt.  “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; for he is very kind and good.  Some one hath lied to thee about him.”