elderly man emerged from the trees and approached her slowly. He was withered and thin and though but fifty years of age seemed much older. His doublet and hose were of some dark stuff and his short cloak was surmounted by a huge ruff, the edges of which almost joined the brim of the small, high, cone-shaped hat which partly concealed his gray hair. 

 “By the mass, Francis! methinks that thou dost grow more unmannerly each day. 10 Thou art as unthinking as the butterfly, else thou wouldst not have burdened my fore-wearied flesh with thy bow.” 

10

 “In sooth, it was but a poor return for thy kindness to leave thee my bow,” observed the girl as she hastened to relieve him of the crossbow that he held. “Thy pardon, Master Hugh. I was intent upon the race and thought not of it. It was a good dash, I promise you.” 

 “Ay! I make no doubt of it,” grumbled the old man seating himself. “But ’twere meeter for a maiden to embroider, or to play the virginals than to shoot the bow or run with the hounds as thou dost.” 

 “Said I not my Latin well this morning, cousin?” queried Francis. “Doth not my lady mother instruct me in the tent and cross-stitch each day? Besides doth not even the Queen’s Majesty disport herself with the bow? ’Tis the fashion, good my master.” 

 “Ay! ‘Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt,’”[A] spoke the old man sharply. 

 “Be not angry, cousin, I did but ill in running from thee.” 11 

11

 “Marry! let it pass, but I mislike such sturdiness, Francis. Thou hast led me a sorry chase and we are far from the Hall. If I mistake not, we are even now in Sanborne Park and that, thou knowest, is trespass.” 

 “Nay, cousin; not unless we kill some of the red deer with which it abounds, and that we have not done—yet,” spoke the maiden demurely. 

 “The thought of such a thing should not be entertained by the daughter of Lord William Stafford. Thou durst not think it, Francis.” 

 “Durst not?” laughed Francis teasingly. “Should one stray in our path I will show thee what I durst.” 

 “Boast not, girl. It bespeaks ill for thy breeding. Thou art too prone to vaunt thy skill in shooting. Not so was that flower of womanhood, the Lady Jane Grey. Once,” and the 

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