But I pulled hard at her bridle, and I forgot my customary manner with her, so full of terror for her I was.  “For God’s sake, child, have done,” I said, and she looked at me, and there came a strange expression, which I had never seen before, into her blue eyes, half of yielding as to some strength which she feared, and half of that high enthusiasm of youth and noble sentiment which threatened to swamp her in its mighty flow as it had done her hero Bacon before her.  I know not if I could have held her; it all passed in a second the while those wild huzzas continued, and the crowd pressed closer, all crowned and crested with green, like a tidal wave of spring, but another argument came to me, and that moved her. “’Tis not yourself alone, but your sister and Madam Cavendish to suffer with you,” I said.  Then she gave a quick glance at Catherine, who was raising her white face and trying to get near enough to speak to her, for her sister’s speech had made her frantic with alarm, and hesitated.  Then she laughed, and the earnest look faded from her face, and she called out with that way of hers which nobody and nothing could withstand, “Nay,” she said, “wait till I be older and have as much wisdom in my head as hath the Maid Marion whom you have chosen.  The one who hath seen so many Mays can best know how to queen it over them.”  So saying, she snatched the wreath with which they had crowned her from her head and cast it with such a sweep of grace as never I saw over the head of flax-headed and masked Maid Marion, and reined her horse back, and the crowd, with worshipful eyes of admiration of her and her sweetness and wit and beauty, gave way, and was off adown the road toward Jarvis Field, with loud clamour of bells and horns and wild dancing and wavings of their gad-sticks and green branches.  Mistress Mary rode before us at a gallop, and presently we were all at the breakfast table in the great hall at Drake Hill, with foaming tankards of metheglin and dishes of honey and salmon and game in plenty.  For, whatever the scarcity of the king’s gold, there was not much lack of food in this rich country.

Madam Cavendish was down that morning, sitting at table with her stick beside her, her head topped with a great tower of snowy cap, her old face now ivory-yellow, but with a wonderful precision of feature, for she had been a great beauty in her day, so alert and alive with the ready comprehension of her black eyes, under slightly scowling brows, that naught escaped her that was within her reach of vision.  Somewhat dull was she of hearing, but that sharpness of eye did much to atone for it.  She looked up, when we entered, with such keenness that for a second my thought was that she knew all.

“What were the sounds of merrymaking down the road?” said she.