“Tell me of them all,” she said.  “I have heard naught of them since we left Tutbury, where at least we were in my Lord’s house, and the dear old silver dog was on every sleeve.  Ah! there he is, the trusty rogue.”

And snatching up Humfrey’s hat, which was fastened with a brooch of his crest in the fashion of the day, she kissed the familiar token.  Then, however, she blushed and drew herself up, remembering the caution not to forget who she was, and with an assumption of more formal dignity, she said, “And how fares it with the good Mrs. Talbot?”

“Well, when I last heard,” said Humfrey, “but I have not been at home.  I only know what Will Cavendish and my Lord Talbot told me.  I sent Diccon on to Bridgefield, and came out of the way to see you, lady,” he concluded, with the same regard to actual circumstances that she had shown.

“Oh, that was good!” she whispered, and they both seemed to feel a certain safety in avoiding personal subjects.  Humfrey had the history of his voyage to narrate—­to tell of little Diccon’s gallant doings, and to exalt Sir Francis Drake’s skill and bravery, and at last to let it ooze out, under Cis’s eager questioning, that when his captain had died of fever on the Hispaniola coast, and they had been overtaken by a tornado, Sir Francis had declared that it was Humfrey’s skill and steadfastness which had saved the ship and crew.

“And it was that tornado,” he said, “which stemmed the fever, and saved little Diccon’s life.  Oh! when he lay moaning below, then was the time to long for my mother.”

Time sped on till the great hall clock made Cicely look up and say she feared that the riders would soon return, and then Humfrey knew that he must make sure to speak the words of warning he came to utter.  He told, in haste, of his message to Queen Elizabeth, and of his being sent on to Secretary Walsingham, adding, “But I saw not the great man, for he was closeted—­with whom think you?  No other than Cuthbert Langston, whom Cavendish called by another name.  It amazed me the more, because I had two days before met him in Westminster with Antony Babington, who presented him to me by his own name.”

“Saw you Antony Babington?” asked Cis, raising her eyes to his face, but looking uneasy.

“Twice, at Westminster, and again in Paul’s Walk.  Had you seen him since you have been here?”

“Not here, but at Tutbury.  He came once, and I was invited to dine in the hall, because he brought recommendations from the Countess.”  There was a pause, and then, as if she had begun to take in the import of Humfrey’s words, she added, “What said you?  That Mr. Langston was going between him and Mr. Secretary?”

“Not exactly that,” and Humfrey repeated with more detail what he had seen of Langston, forbearing to ask any questions which Cicely might not be able to answer with honour; but they had been too much together in childhood not to catch one another’s meaning with half a hint, and she said, “I see why you came here, Humfrey.  It was good and true and kind, befitting you.  I will tell the Queen.  If Langston be in it, there is sure to be treachery.  But, indeed, I know nothing or well-nigh nothing.”