In a few days, Sir Ralf Sadler and his son-in-law Mr. Somer arrived at Sheffield in order to take the charge of the prisoner whilst Shrewsbury went to London.  The conferences and consultations were endless, and harassing, and it was finally decided that the Earl should escort her to Wingfield, and, leaving her there under charge of Sadler, should proceed to London.  She made formal application for Mistress Cicely Talbot to accompany her as one of her suite, and her supposed parents could not but give their consent, but six gentlewomen had been already enumerated, and the authorities would not consent to her taking any more ladies with her, and decreed that Mistress Cicely must remain at home.

“This unkindness has made the parting from this place less joyous than I looked for,” said Mary, “but courage, ma mignonne.  Soon shall I send for thee to Scotland, and there shalt thou burst thine husk, and show thyself in thy true colours;” and turning to Susan, “Madam, I must commit my treasure to her who has so long watched over her.”

“Your Grace knows that she is no less my treasure,” said Susan.

“I should have known it well,” returned the Queen, “from the innocence and guilelessness of the damsel.  None save such a mother as Mistress Talbot could have made her what she is.  Credit me, madam, I have looked well into her heart, and found nought to undo there.  You have bred her up better than her poor mother could have done, and I gladly entrust her once more to your care, assured that your well-tried honour will keep her in mind of what she is, and to what she may be called.”

“She shall remember it, madam,” said Susan.

“When I am a Queen once more,” said Mary, “all I can give will seem too poor a meed for what you have been to my child.  Even as Queen of Scotland or England itself, my power would be small in comparison with my will.  My gratitude, however, no bounds can limit out to me.”

And with tears of tenderness and thankfulness she kissed the cheeks and lips of good Mistress Talbot, who could not but likewise weep for the mother thus compelled to part with her child.

The night was partly spent in caresses and promises of the brilliant reception preparing in Scotland, with auguries of the splendid marriage in store, with a Prince of Lorraine, or even with an Archduke.

Cis was still young enough to dream of such a lot as an opening to a fairy land of princely glories.  If her mother knew better, she still looked tenderly back on her beau pays de France with that halo of brightness which is formed only in childhood and youth.  Moreover, it might be desirable to enhance such aspiration as might best secure the young princess from anything derogatory to her real rank, while she was strongly warned against betraying it, and especially against any assumption of dignity should she ever hear of her mother’s release, reception, and recognition in Scotland.  For whatever might be the maternal longings, it would be needful to feel the way and prepare the ground for the acknowledgment of Bothwell’s daughter in Scotland, while the knowledge of her existence in England would almost surely lead to her being detained as a hostage.  She likewise warned the maiden never to regard any letter or billet from her as fully read till it had been held—­without witnesses—­to the fire.