She therefore made answer with dignity, “If it will please your Majesty to look at this letter, you will see the proofs of what I say, and that I am indeed Bride Hepburn, the daughter of Queen Mary’s last marriage.  I was born at Lochleven on the 20th of February of the year of grace 1567,” (footnote — 1568 according to our calendar) “and thence secretly sent in the Bride of Dunbar to be bred up in France.  The ship was wrecked, and all lost on board, but I was, by the grace of God, picked up by a good and gallant gentleman of my Lord of Shrewsbury’s following, Master Richard Talbot of Bridgefield, who brought me up as his own daughter, all unknowing whence I came or who I was, until three years ago, when one of the secret agents who had knowledge of the affairs of the Queen of Scots made known to her that I was the babe who had been embarked in the Bride of Dunbar.”

“Verily, thou must be a bold wench to expect me to believe such a mere minstrel’s tale,” said Elizabeth.

“Nevertheless, madam, it is the simple truth, as you will see if you deign to open this packet.”

“And who or where is this same honourable gentleman who brought you up—­Richard Talbot?  I have heard that name before!”

“He is here, madam.  He will confirm all I say.”

The Queen touched a little bell, and ordered Master Talbot of Bridgefield to be brought to her, while, hastily casting her eyes on the credentials, she demanded of Chateauneuf, “Knew you aught of this, sir?”

“I know only what the Queen of Scotland has written and what this Monsieur Talbot has told me, madam,” said Chateauneuf.  “There can be no doubt that the Queen of Scotland has treated her as a daughter, and owns her for such in her letter to me, as well as to your Majesty.”

“And the letters are no forgery?”

“Mine is assuredly not, madam; I know the private hand of the Queen of Scots too well to be deceived.  Moreover, Madame Curll, the wife of the Secretary, and others, can speak to the manner in which this young lady was treated.”

“Openly treated as a daughter!  That passes, sir.  My faithful subjects would never have left me uninformed!”

“So please your Majesty,” here the maiden ventured, “I have always borne the name of Cicely Talbot, and no one knows what is my real birth save those who were with my mother at Lochleven, excepting Mrs. Curll.  The rest even of her own attendants only understood me to be a Scottish orphan.  My true lineage should never have been known, were it not a daughter’s duty to plead for her mother.”

By this time Mr. Talbot was at the door, and he was received by the Queen with, “So ho!  Master Talbot, how is this?  You, that have been vaunted to us as the very pink of fidelity, working up a tale that smacks mightily of treason and leasing!”

“The truth is oft stranger than any playwright can devise,” said Richard, as he knelt.