“Stop, stop in God’s name, stop!” As she was about to fling herself between them, Cedric fell heavily to the floor, a stream of blood flowing from his breast.  With a wild scream Katherine fell upon her knees at his side and pressed her dainty handkerchief to the wound, and began to fondle him and speak in his ear that she loved him.  Aye, she was sure now, there could be no doubt, and as she pressed her lips to his cold, white face she saw his eyelids flutter.  She looked up quickly into the priest’s face; he answered her look with wholesome words.

“The wound is slight, my child; he will recover.”  She fell back, blushing with shame for her bold avowals, and knew not which way to turn to hide her confusion; for she was sure all present had marked her warm words and actions.

Immediately Lord Cedric was carried to an inner room, and Katherine turned about to look for Cantemir, as did a half-dozen others; he had disappeared and where he stood were a score of masqued figures.  When they saw they had the attention of the company, one lifted high his sword and cried,—­

“Hail, merry monarchs of the Sylvan Chapel!  We have come to escort the maid to the King!” While this avowal struck the Abbes with consternation, they had expected a different mode of attack, and they were not displeased that it had taken another course.  They had expected the treasure would be demanded of them with all their papers.  These they would fight for.  The secret for which Mistress Penwick was to visit the King, the Abbes were now sure the Royal party knew not.  The papers she carried could give them no clue even though they gained possession of them, and the maid would never divulge what she was to say to his Majesty.

“Her escort is provided,” said La Fosse, who stood nearly exhausted, leaning upon the table, his sword still in his hand.

“Ah, but if we choose to offer her a more honourable one!  Indeed the knave of a Russian, who lies without, has but just put the matter in our hands.  He was to escort her, but at sight of blood he faints and begs us take forthwith his promised wife to Whitehall.”  One could not mistake the courtly grace and fine figure of his Grace of Buckingham.  Behind him was a form equally imposing, and the handsome mouth and chin of the Duke of Monmouth could be seen as he tilted his masque for a better view of the maid, whom he supposed was the same he had met in the evening.  But with half an eye he saw his mistake.  Never was he so moved at first sight of a face before.  He drank in her loveliness in rapturous drafts, and swayed from side to side examining with critical eye the outline of her fair mould.  She had thrown her cloak from her and stood slightly in front of Constantine, as he, holding a candle at her elbow, leant close to her ear, whispering and holding a small paper for her to read.  As she read, her eyes flashed, her bosom rose and fell neath the covering of her short, full waist; and Monmouth’s eyes seemed ravished by it.  It had been his misfortune, he thought, to see long, modish, tapering stays that bruised his fancy as it did the wearer’s body, and to behold such slender waist crowned by full, unfettered maiden roundness, pedestalled by such broad and shapely hips was maddening.  He had not dreamt of such beauty when his Grace of Buckingham had suggested the trip into the forest.