“All was well with them when last I heard,” said Antony.

“And Cis—­my sister I mean?” said Diccon, putting, in his unconsciousness, the very question Humfrey was burning to ask.

“She is still with the Queen of Scots, at Chartley,” replied Babington.

“Chartley, where is that?  It is a new place for her captivity.”

“’Tis a house of my Lord of Essex, not far from Lichfield,” returned Antony.  “They sent her thither this spring, after they had well-nigh slain her with the damp and wretched lodgings they provided at Tutbury.”

“Who?  Not our Cis?” asked Diccon.

“Nay,” said Antony, “it hurt not her vigorous youth—­but I meant the long-suffering princess.”

“Hath Sir Ralf Sadler still the charge of her?” inquired Humfrey.

“No, indeed.  He was too gentle a jailer for the Council.  They have given her Sir Amias Paulett, a mere Puritan and Leicestrian, who is as hard as the nether millstone, and well-nigh as dull,” said Babington, with a little significant chuckle, which perhaps alarmed one of his companions, a small slight man with a slight halt, clad in black like a lawyer.  “Mr. Babington,” he said, “pardon me for interrupting you, but we shall make Mr. Gage tarry supper for us.”

“Nay, Mr. Langston,” said Babington, who was in high spirits, “these are kinsmen of your own, sons of Mr. Richard Talbot of Bridgefield, to whom you have often told me you were akin.”

Mr. Langston was thus compelled to come forward, shake hands with the young travellers, welcome them home, and desire to be commended to their worthy parents; and Babington, in the exuberance of his welcome, named his other two companions—­Mr. Tichborne, a fine, handsome, graceful, and somewhat melancholy young man; Captain Fortescue, a bearded moustached bravo, in the height of the fashion, a long plume in his Spanish hat, and his short gray cloak glittering with silver lace.  Humfrey returned their salute, but was as glad as they evidently were when they got Babington away with them, and left the brothers to pursue their way, after inviting them to come and see him at his lodgings as early as possible,

“It is before supper,” said Diccon, sagely, “or I should say Master Antony had been acquainted with some good canary.”

“More likely he is uplifted with some fancy of his own.  It may be only with the meeting of me after our encounter,” said Humfrey.  “He is a brave fellow and kindly, but never did craft so want ballast as does that pate of his!”

“Humfrey,” said his brother, riding nearer to him, “did he not call that fellow in black, Langston?”

“Ay, Cuthbert Langston.  I have heard of him.  No good comrade for his weak brain.”

“Humfrey, it is so, though father would not credit me.  I knew his halt and his eye—­just like the venomous little snake that was the death, of poor Foster.  He is the same with the witch woman Tibbott, ay, and with her with the beads and bracelets, who beset Cis and me at Buxton.”