"Why, I knew that," answered the child. "But what did he, or held he?-- for 'tis somewhat naughty, folk say." "If it be somewhat naughty, Lady Custance, you should not seek to know it." "But my Lady my mother wagged her head, though she spake not. So I want to know." "Then your best way, Damosel," suggested the troubled Agnes, "were to ask at her Grace." "I did ask at her." "And what said she?" "She said she would tell me another day. But I want to know now." "Her Grace's answer might have served you, Lady." "It did not serve Ned. He said he would know. And so will I." "The Lord Edward is two years your elder, Lady." "Truth," said the child shrewdly, "and you be sixty years mine elder, so you should know more than he by thirty." Agnes could not help smiling, but she was sadly perplexed how to dismiss the unwelcome topic. "Let be. If thou wilt not tell me, I will blandish some that will. There be other beside thee in the university [world, universe].--What is yonder bruit?" [a noise.] It was little Maude, flying in frantic terror, with Parnel in hot pursuit, both too much absorbed to note in what direction they were running. The cause was not far to seek. After Maude had recovered from the effects of her exposure in the forest, she lighted unexpectedly on the little flat parcel which her mother had charged her to keep. It was carefully sewn up in linen, and the sewing cost Maude some trouble to penetrate. She reached the core at last. It was something thin and flat, with curious black and red patterns all over it. This would have been the child's description. It was, in truth, a vellum leaf of a manuscript, elaborately written, but not illuminated, unless capitals in red ink can be termed illumination. Remembering her mother's charge, to let "none beguile her of it," Maude had striven to keep its possession a secret from every one, first from the nuns, and then from Ursula Drew. Strange to say, she had succeeded until that morning. It was to her a priceless treasure--all the more inestimable because she could not read a word of it. But on that unlucky morning, Parnel had caught a glimpse of the precious parcel, always hidden in Maude's bosom, and had immediately endeavoured to snatch it from her. Contriving to elude her grasp, yet fearful of its repetition, Maude rushed out of the kitchen door, and finding that her tormentor followed, fled across the base court, took refuge in an open archway, dashed up a flight of steps, and sped along a wide corridor, neither knowing nor caring that her flying feet were bearing her straight in the direction of the royal apartments. Parnel was the first to see where they were going, and at the last corner she stayed her pursuit, daring to proceed no further. But Maude did not know that Parnel was no longer on her track, and she fled wildly on, till her foot tripped at an inequality in the stone passage, and she came down just opposite an open door.