BY THE QUEENS GRACE THE CHAPTER I toll-house at the northern tower of London Bridge was warped and rickety. Its gabled roof, red with rust, curled up at the eaves like the sides of a bishops hat, and the whole place leaned far over the river, seeming, indeed, to keep from falling more by some force of adhesion than stability of construction. Those were the days of the old bridge. After- ward Elizabeth restored it with much splendour, but at this time the narrow arches were crum- bling and the foundations crazy with age. Still, the people loved it for all it had seen of Eng- lands past. If the bridge has a fault, said some wag of the time, it is its irritating habit of falling down in places. Yet well had it stood out against the siege of time, and many a generation had it seen vanish as the river-mists of early morning. Many a grim crusader returning from the holy wars had crossed it in triumphant music of clinking spurs In the far-away days they state to the and linked armour. let down the creak- ing drawbridge upon the southern side, so the beautiful boy-king, Richard, decked in his parti- coloured robes all a-jingle with little golden bells, might ride over in company of his merry fol- lowing. Henry V., fresh home from the plains of Agincourt with his battered army, made en- trance into London through the northern gates of the bridge, while the people strewed rosemary branches in the way for remembrance of their dear-bought victories, and stopped the stern war- rior that they might crown him with silver laurel- leaves. In later times, when the country was divided against itself, hot-headed gentlemen wearing the white rose of York, or the red rose of Lancaster, galloped that way inknots of twos or threes from dawn till dark, and from dark till dawn again. Harry of England, back from France and the mimic wars and tourneys of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, took this path into the city with all his dazzling courtiers in his train. Sombre funerals had passed across the bridge in slow procession. Many a grim fight had stained the flooring red. Aye, and there had been jousts fought there for love of glory alone, when the towers had their turrets plumed with banners, and gay gentlemen rode beneath. All these things the place knew, and many were its burdens most gruesome of all, the ghastly heads of traitors. These terrible tro- phies were still spiked upon the great Southwark gate, and were lit up in horrible brilliancy at night, when the flaming links fluttering in the river-wind threw weird shadows over their star- ing faces. Now Richard Davenport, toll-taker at the north tower, had been known far and wide in the days of his youth for his handsome face, and also for being a most rare villain. Nor did he lack wit, for he had slipped as by a charm through loop- holes that were too small or difficult for his com- panions, and for the most part the traps set to catch other cut-purses failed to catch him. Neither had he been branded in any way, either by the cat-o-nine-tails, or by a brad-awl through the ear, as was the common way, though this was more by his good luck than good management. Yet Justice pursued him fiercely, and, light- heeled though he was, he had not always escaped...