Fair Margaret | Page 4

of chestnut, shading into black, that waved above them and fell,
tress upon tress, upon the shapely shoulders and down to the slender
waist.
Peter Brome, for he was so named, looked a little anxiously about him
at the crowd, then, turning, addressed Margaret in his strong, clear
voice.
"There are rough folk around," he said; "do you think you should stop
here? Your father might be angered, Cousin."
Here it may be explained that in reality their kinship was of the
slightest, a mere dash of blood that came to her through her mother.
Still they called each other thus, since it is a convenient title that may
mean much or nothing.
"Oh! why not?" she answered in her rich, slow tones, that had in them
some foreign quality, something soft and sweet as the caress of a
southern wind at night. "With you, Cousin," and she glanced
approvingly at his stalwart, soldier-like form, "I have nothing to fear
from men, however rough, and I do greatly want to see the king close
by, and so does Betty. Don't you, Betty?" and she turned to her
companion.
Betty Dene, whom she addressed, was also a cousin of Margaret,
though only a distant connection of Peter Brome. She was of very good
blood, but her father, a wild and dissolute man, had broken her mother's
heart, and, like that mother, died early, leaving Betty dependent upon
Margaret's mother, in whose house she had been brought up. This Betty
was in her way remarkable, both in body and mind. Fair, splendidly
formed, strong, with wide, bold, blue eyes and ripe red lips, such was
the fashion of her. In speech she was careless and vigorous. Fond of the
society of men, and fonder still of their admiration, for she was
romantic and vain, Betty at the age of five-and-twenty was yet an
honest girl, and well able to take care of herself, as more than one of
her admirers had discovered. Although her position was humble, at
heart she was very proud of her lineage, ambitious also, her great desire

being to raise herself by marriage back to the station from which her
father's folly had cast her down--no easy business for one who passed
as a waiting-woman and was without fortune.
For the rest, she loved and admired her cousin Margaret more than any
one on earth, while Peter she liked and respected, none the less perhaps
because, try as she would--and, being nettled, she did try hard
enough--her beauty and other charms left him quite unmoved.
In answer to Margaret's question she laughed and answered:
"Of course. We are all too busy up in Holborn to get the chance of so
many shows that I should wish to miss one. Still, Master Peter is very
wise, and I am always counselled to obey him. Also, it will soon be
dark."
"Well, well," said Margaret with a sigh and a little shrug of her
shoulders, "as you are both against me, perhaps we had best be going.
Next time I come out walking, cousin Peter, it shall be with some one
who is more kind."
Then she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could
through the thickening crowd. Finding this difficult, before Peter could
stop her, for she was very swift in her movements, Margaret bore to the
right, entering the space immediately in front of the banqueting-hall
where the grooms with horses and soldiers were assembled awaiting
their lords, for here there was more room to walk. For a few moments
Peter and Betty were unable to escape from the mob which closed in
behind her, and thus it came about that Margaret found herself alone
among these people, in the midst, indeed, of the guard of the Spanish
ambassador de Ayala, men who were notorious for their lawlessness,
for they reckoned upon their master's privilege to protect them. Also,
for the most part, they were just then more or less in liquor.
One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the priest-
diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had also
been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who
appeared to be young and pretty, determined to examine her more

closely, and to this end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to
stumble, he grasped at Margaret's cloak as though to save himself, and
with a wrench tore it open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful
figure.
"A dove, comrades!--a dove!" he shouted in a voice thick with drink,
"who has flown here to give me a kiss." And, casting his long arms
about her, he strove to draw her to him.
"Peter! Help me, Peter!" cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in his
grip.
"No, no, if you