Cicely did, however, miss his care, for the Queen could not but be engrossed by her various cicerones and attendants, and it was no one’s especial business to look after the young girl over the rough descent to the dripping well called Roger Rain’s House, and the grand cathedral-like gallery, with splendid pillars of stalagmite, and pendants above.  By the time the steps beyond were reached, a toilsome descent, the Queen had had enough of the expedition, and declined to go any farther, but she good-naturedly yielded to the wish of Master John Eyre and Dr. Jones, that she would inscribe her name on the farthest column that she had reached.

There was a little confusion while this was being done, as some of the more enterprising wished to penetrate as far as possible into the recesses of the cave, and these were allowed to pass forward—­Diccon and his father among them.  In the passing and repassing, Cicely entirely lost sight of all who had any special care of her, and went stumbling on alone, weary, frightened, and repenting of the wilfulness with which she had urged on the expedition.  Each of the other ladies had some cavalier to help her, but none had fallen to Cicely’s lot, and though, to an active girl, there was no real danger where the torchbearers lined the way, still there was so much difficulty that she was a laggard in reaching the likeness of Acheron, and could see no father near as she laid herself down in Charon’s dismal boat, dimly rejoicing that this time it was to return to the realms of day, and yet feeling as if she should never reach them.  A hand was given to assist her from the boat by one of the torchbearers, a voice strangely familiar was in her ears, saying, “Mistress Cicely!” and she knew the eager eyes, and exclaimed under her breath, “Antony, you here?  In hiding?  What have you done?”

“Nothing,” he answered, smiling, and holding her hand, as he helped her forward.  “I only put on this garb that I might gaze once more on the most divine and persecuted of queens, and with some hope likewise that I might win a word with her who deigned once to be my playmate.  Lady, I know the truth respecting you.”

“Do you in very deed?” demanded Cicely, considerably startled.

“I know your true name, and that you are none of the mastiff race,” said Antony.

“Did—­did Tibbott tell you, sir?” asked Cicely.

“You are one of us,” said Antony; “bound by natural allegiance in the land of your birth to this lady.”

“Even so,” said Cis, here becoming secure of what she had before doubted, that Babington only knew half the truth he referred to.

“And you see and speak with her privily,” he added.

“As Bess Pierrepoint did,” said she.

These words passed during the ascent, and were much interrupted by the difficulties of the way, in which Antony rendered such aid that she was each moment more impelled to trust to him, and relieved to find herself in such familiar hands.  On reaching the summit the light of day could be seen glimmering in the extreme distance, and the maiden’s heart bounded at the sight of it; but she found herself led somewhat aside, where in a sort of side aisle of the great bell chamber were standing together four more of the torch-bearers.