“Loving!  Ah!  I see what it is,” said the Queen, in a tone of disgust.  “It is the sailor loon that has overthrown it all.  A couple of walks in the garden with him, and the silly maid is ready to throw over all nobler thoughts.”

“Madam, he spoke no such word to me.”

“’Twas the infection, child—­only the infection.”

“Madam, I pray you—­”

“Whist, child.  Thou wilt be a perilous bride for any commoner, and let that thought, if no other, keep thee from lowering thine eyes to such as he.  Were I and thy brother taken out of the way, none would stand between thee and both thrones!  What would English or Scots say to find thee a household Joan, wedded to one of Drake’s rude pirate fellows?  I tell thee it would be the worse for him.  They have made it treason to wed royal blood without Elizabeth’s consent.  No, no, for his sake, as well as thine own, thou must promise me never thus to debase thy royal lineage.”

“Mother; neither he nor I have thought or spoken of such a matter since we knew how it was with me.

“And you give me your word?”

“Yea, madam,” said Cicely, who had really never entertained the idea of marrying Humfrey, implicit as was her trust in him as a brother and protector.

“That is well.  And so soon as I am restored to my poor servants, if I ever am, I will take measures for sending the French remnant to their own land; nor shall my Courcelles quit thee till she hath seen thee safe in the keeping of Madame de Lorraine or of Queen Louise, who is herself a kinswoman of ours, and, they say, is piety and gentleness itself.”

“As you will, madam,” said Cicely, her heart sinking at the thought of the strange new world before her, but perceiving that she must not be the means of bringing Humfrey into trouble and danger.

Perhaps she felt this the more from seeing how acutely her mother suffered at times from sorrow for those involved in her disaster.  She gave Babington and his companions, as well as Nau and Curll, up for lost, as the natural consequence of having befriended her; and she blamed herself remorsefully, after the long experience of the fatal consequences of meddling in her affairs, for having entered into correspondence with the bright enthusiastic boy whom she remembered, and having lured him without doubt to his death.

“Alack! alack!” she said, “and yet such is liberty, that I should forget all I have gone through, and do the like again, if the door seemed opened to me.  At least there is this comfort, cruel child, thy little heart was not set on him, gracious and handsome though he were—­and thy mother’s most devoted knight!  Ah! poor youth, it wrings my soul to think of him.  But at least he is a Catholic, his soul will be safe, and I will have hundreds of masses sung for him.  Oh that I knew how it goes with them!  This torture of silent suspense is the most cruel of all.”