A cry from the fallen horseman brought his companion to his side, and gave Brandon an opportunity to escape with the girls.  Of this he took advantage, you may be sure, for one of his mottoes was, that the greatest fool in the world is he who does not early in life learn how and when to run.

In the light of the sparks from the sword-stroke upon the wall, brief as it was, Brandon recognized the face of Buckingham, from which the mask had fallen.  Of this he did not speak to any one till long afterward, and his silence was almost his undoing.

How often a word spoken or unspoken may have the very deuce in it either way!

The girls were nearly dead from fright, and in order to make any sort of progress Brandon had to carry the princess and help Jane until he thought they were out of danger.  Jane soon recovered, but Mary did not seem anxious to walk, and lay with her head upon Brandon’s shoulder, apparently contented enough.

In a few minutes Jane said, “If you can walk now, my lady, I think you had better.  We shall soon be near Fishmonger’s Hall, where some one is sure to be standing at this hour.”

Mary said nothing in reply to Jane, but, as Brandon fell a step or two behind at a narrow crossing, whispered: 

“Forgive me, forgive me; I will do any penance you ask; I am unworthy to speak your name.  I owe you my life and more—­and more a thousand times.”  At this she lifted her arm and placed her hand upon his cheek and neck.  She then learned for the first time that he was wounded, and the tears came softly as she slipped from his arms to the ground.  She walked beside him quietly for a little time, then, taking his hand in both of hers, gently lifted it to her lips and laid it upon her breast.  Half an hour afterward Brandon left the girls at Bridewell House, went over to the Bridge where he had left his horse at a hostelry, and rode down to Greenwich.

So Mary had made her trip to Grouche’s, but it was labor worse than lost.  Grouche had told her nothing she wanted to know, though much that he supposed she would like to learn.  He had told her she had many lovers, a fact which her face and form would make easy enough to discover.  He informed her also that she had a low-born lover, and in order to put a little evil in with the good fortune, and give what he said an air of truth, he added to Mary’s state of unrest more than he thought by telling her that her low-born lover was false.  He thought to flatter her by predicting that she would soon marry a very great prince or nobleman, the indications being in favor of the former, and, in place of this making her happy, she wished the wretched soothsayer in the bottomless pit—­he and all his prophecies; herself, too, for going to him.  His guesses were pretty shrewd; that is, admitting he did not know who Mary was, which she at least supposed was the case.  So Mary wept that night and moaned and moaned because she had gone to Grouche’s.  It had added