“Even so, sir, and untouched,” said Humfrey.

“Thanks be to God!” he exclaimed.  “This is what I feared.  Who was it?”

“One of the new men-at-arms from London—­Peter Pierson he called himself, and said he had served in the Netherlands.”

And after a few further words of explanation, Humfrey called in the prisoner and his guards, and before his face gave an account of his attempt upon the helpless Queen.

“Godless and murderous villain!” said Paulett, “what hast thou to say for thyself that I should not hang thee from the highest tower?”

“Naught that will hinder you, worshipful seignior,” returned the man with a sneer.  “In sooth I see no great odds between taking life with a dagger and with an axe, save that fewer folk are regaled with the spectacle.”

“Wretch,” said Paulett, “wouldst thou confound private murder with the open judgment of God and man?”

“Judgment hath been pronounced,” said the fellow, “but it needs not to dispute the matter.  Only if this honest youth had not come blundering in and cut his fingers in the fray, your captive would have been quietly rid of all her troubles, and I should have had my reward from certain great folk you wot of.  Ay,” as Sir Amias turned still yellower, “you take my meaning, sir.”

“Take him away,” said Paulett, collecting himself; “he would cloak his crime by accusing others of his desperate wickedness.”

“Where, sir?” inquired Humfrey.

Sir Amias would have preferred hanging the fellow without inquiry, but as Fotheringhay was not under martial law, he ordered him off to the dungeons for the present, while the nearest justice of the peace was sent for.  The knight bade Humfrey remain while the prisoner was walked off under due guard, and made a few more inquiries, adding, with a sigh, “You must double the guard, Master Talbot, and get rid of all those London rogues—­sons of Belial are they all, and I’ll have none for whom I cannot answer—­for I fear me ’tis all too true what the fellow says.”

“Who would set him on?”

“That I may not say.  But would you believe it, Humfrey Talbot, I have been blamed—­ay, rated like a hound, for that I will not lend myself to a privy murder.”

“Verily, sir?”

“Verily, and indeed, young man.  ’Tis the part of a loyal subject, they say, to spare her Majesty’s womanish feelings and her hatred of bloodshed, and this lady having been condemned, to take her off secretly so as to save the Queen the pain and heart-searchings of signing the warrant.  You credit me not, sir, but I have the letter—­ to my sorrow and shame.”

No wonder that the poor, precise, hard-hearted, but religious and high-principled man was laid up with a fit of the gout, after receiving the shameful letter which he described, which is still extant, signed by Walsingham and Davison.

“Strange loyalty,” said Humfrey.