Humfrey saw he was to be treated with no confidence, and this made him the more free to act.  There were many recusant gentlemen in the neighbourhood of Chartley, and an assault and fight there were not improbable, if, as Cavendish hinted, there was a purpose of letting the traitors implicate themselves in the largest numbers and as fatally as possible.  On the other hand, Babington’s hot head might only fancy he had authority from the Queen for his projects.  If, through Cicely, he could convey the information to Mary, it might save her from even appearing to be cognisant of these wild schemes, whatever they might be, and to hint that they were known was the surest way to prevent their taking effect.  Any way, Humfrey’s heart was at Chartley, and every warning he had received made him doubly anxious to be there in person, to be Cicely’s guardian in case of whatever danger might threaten her.  He blessed the fiction which still represented him as her brother, and which must open a way for him to see her, but he resolved not to take Diccon thither, and parted with him when the roads diverged towards Lichfield, sending to his father a letter which Diccon was to deliver only into his own hand, with full details of all he had seen and heard, and his motives for repairing to Chartley.

“Shall I see my little Cis?” thought he.  “And even if she play the princess to me, how will she meet me?  She scorned me even when she was at home.  How will it be now when she has been for well-nigh a year in this Queen’s training?  Ah! she will be taught to despise me!  Heigh ho!  At least she may be in need of a true heart and strong arm to guard her, and they shall not fail her.”

Will Cavendish, in the plenitude of the official importance with which he liked to dazzle his old playfellow, had offered him a pass to facilitate his entrance, and he found reason to be glad that he had accepted it, for there was a guard at the gate of Chartley Park, and he was detained there while his letter was sent up for inspection to Sir Amias Paulett, who had for the last few months acted as warder to the Queen.

However, a friendly message came back, inviting him to ride up.  The house—­though called a castle—­had been rebuilt in hospitable domestic style, and looked much less like a prison than Sheffield Lodge, but at every enclosure stood yeomen who challenged the passers-by, as though this were a time of alarm.  However, at the hall-door itself stood Sir Amias Paulett, a thin, narrow-browed, anxious-looking man, with the stiffest of ruffs, over which hung a scanty yellow beard.

“Welcome, sir,” he said, with a nervous anxious distressed manner.  “Welcome, most welcome.  You will pardon any discourtesy, sir, but these are evil times.  The son, I think, of good Master Richard Talbot of Bridgefield?  Ay, I would not for worlds have shown any lack of hospitality to one of his family.  It is no want of respect, sir.  No; nor of my Lord’s house; but these are ill days, and with my charge, sir—­if Heaven itself keep not the house—­who knows what may chance or what may be laid on me?”