“And too much after the Spanish sort for an English Protestant,” said Sir Amias.  “I made answer that I would lay down my life to guard this unhappy woman to undergo the justice that is to be done upon her, but murder her, or allow her to be slain in my hands, I neither can nor will, so help me Heaven, as a true though sinful man.”

“Amen,” said Humfrey.

“And no small cause of thanks have I that in you, young sir, I have one who may be trusted for faith as well as courage, and I need not say discretion.”

As he spoke, Sir Drew Drury, who had been out riding, returned, anxious to hear the details of this strange event.  Sir Amias could not leave his room.  Sir Drew accompanied Humfrey to the Queen’s apartments to hear her account and that of her attendants.  It was given with praises of the young gentleman which put him to the blush, and Sir Drew then gave permission for his hurt to be treated by Maitre Gorion, and left him in the antechamber for the purpose.

Sir Amias would perhaps have done more wisely if he had not detained Humfrey from seeing the criminal guarded to his prison.  For Sir Drew Drury, going from the Queen’s presence to interrogate the fellow before sending for a magistrate, found the cell empty.  It had been the turn of duty of one of the new London men-at-arms, and he had been placed as sentry at the door by the sergeant—­the stupidest and trustiest of fellows—­who stood gaping in utter amazement when he found that sentry and prisoner were both alike missing.

On the whole, the two warders agreed that it would be wiser to hush up the matter.  When Mary heard that the man had escaped, she quietly said, “I understand.  They know how to do such things better abroad.”

Things returned to their usual state except that Humfrey had permission to go daily to have his hand attended to by M. Gorion, and the Queen never let pass this opportunity of speaking to him, though the very first time she ascertained that he knew as little as she did of the proceedings of his father and Cicely.

Now, for the first time, did Humfrey understand the charm that had captivated Babington, and that even his father confessed.  Ailing, aging, and suffering as she was, and in daily expectation of her sentence of death, there was still something more wonderfully winning about her, a sweet pathetic cheerfulness, kindness, and resignation, that filled his heart with devotion to her.  And then she spoke of Cicely, the rarest and greatest delight that he could enjoy.  She evidently regarded him with favour, if not affection, because he loved the maiden whom she could not but deny to him.  Would he not do anything for her?  Ay, anything consistent with duty.  And there came a twinge which startled him.  Was she making him value duty less?  Never.  Besides, how few days he could see her.  His hand was healing all too fast, and what might not come any day from London?  Was Queen Mary’s last conquest to be that of Humfrey Talbot?