“It is well if treason against my good sister’s person have been detected and frustrated,” said Mary; “but how doth that concern me?”

“That, madam, the papers at Chartley will show,” returned Gorges.  “Meantime you will remain here, till her Majesty’s pleasure be known.”

“Where, then, are my women and my servants?” inquired the Queen.

“Your Grace will be attended by the servants of Sir Walter Ashton.”

“Gentlemen, this is not seemly,” said Mary, the colour coming hotly into her face.  “I know it is not the will of my cousin, the Queen of England, that I should remain here without any woman to attend me, nor any change of garments.  You are exceeding your commission, and she shall hear of it.”

Sir Amias Paulett here laid his hand on Gorges’ arm, and after exchanging a few words with him, said—­

“Madam, this young lady, Mistress Talbot, being simple, and of a loyal house, may remain with you for the present.  For the rest, seals are put on all your effects at Chartley, and nothing can be removed from thence, but what is needful will be supplied by my Lady Ashton.  I bid your Grace farewell, craving your pardon for what may have been hasty in this.”

Mary stood in the centre of the floor, full of her own peculiar injured dignity, not answering, but making a low ironical reverence.  Mary Seaton fell on her knees, clung to the Queen’s dress, and declared that while she lived, she would not leave her mistress.

“Endure this also, ma mie,” said the Queen, in French.  “Give them no excuse for using violence.  They would not scruple—­” and as a demonstration to hinder French-speaking was made by the gentlemen, “Fear not for me, I shall not be alone.”

“I understand your Grace and obey,” said Mary Seaton, rising, with a certain bitterness in her tone, which made Mary say—­ “Ah! why must jealousy mar the fondest affection?  Remember, it is their choice, not mine, my Seaton, friend of my youth.  Bear my loving greetings to all.  And take care of poor Barbara!”

“Madam, there must be no private messages,” said Paulett.

“I send no messages save what you yourself may hear, sir,” replied the Queen.  “My greetings to my faithful servants, and my entreaty that all care and tenderness may be shown to Mrs. Curll.”

“I will bear them, madam,” said the knight, “and so I commend you to God’s keeping, praying that He may send you repentance.  Believe me, madam, I am sorry that this has been put upon me.”

To this Mary only replied by a gesture of dismissal.  The three gentlemen drew back, a key grated in the lock, and the mother and daughter were left alone.

To Cicely it was a terrible hopeless sound, and even to her mother it was a lower depth of wretchedness.  She had been practically a captive for nearly twenty years.  She had been insulted, watched, guarded, coerced, but never in this manner locked up before.