Babington believed the man stopped short of absolute certainty, though he had declared himself to have reason to believe that a child must have been born to the captive queen at Lochleven; and if so, where else could she be?  Was he waiting for clear proof to make the secret known to the Council?  Did he intend to make profit of it and obtain in the poor girl a subject for further intrigue?  Was he withheld by consideration for Richard Talbot, for whom Babington declared that if such a villain could be believed in any respect, he had much family regard and deep gratitude, since Richard had stood his friend when all his family had cast him off in much resentment at his change of purpose and opinion.

At any rate he had in his power Cicely’s welfare and liberty, if not the lives of her adopted parents, since in the present juncture of affairs, and of universal suspicion, the concealment of the existence of one who stood so near the throne might easily be represented as high treason.  Where was he?

No one knew.  For appearance sake, Gifford had fled beyond seas, happily only to fall into a prison of the Duke of Guise:  and they must hope that Langston might have followed the same course.  Meantime, Richard could but go on as before, Cicely being now in her own mother’s hands.  The avowal of her identity must remain for the present as might be determined by her who had the right to decide.

“I would I could feel hope for any I leave behind me,” said poor Antony.  “I trow you will not bear the maiden my message, for you will deem it a sin that I have loved her, and only her, to the last, though I have been false to that love as to all else beside.  Tell Humfrey how I long that I had been like him, though he too must love on without hope.”

He sent warm greetings to good Mistress Susan Talbot and craved her prayers.  He had one other care, namely to commend to Mr. Talbot an old body servant, Harry Gillingham by name, who had attended on him in his boyhood at Sheffield, and had been with him all his life, being admitted even now, under supervision from the warders, to wait on him when dressing and at his meals.  The poor man was broken-hearted, and so near desperation that his master wished much to get him out of London before the execution.  So, as Mr. Talbot meant to sail for Hull by the next day’s tide in the Mastiff, he promised to take the poor fellow with him back to Bridgefield.

All this had taken much time.  Antony did not seem disposed to go farther into his own feelings in the brief space that remained, but he took up a paper from the table, and indicating Tichborne, who still affected sleep, he asked whether it was fit that a man, who could write thus, should die for a plot against which he had always protested.  Richard read these touching lines:—­

My prime of youth is but a frost of care,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goods is but vain hope of gain. 
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.