“And who is to answer that, when once beyond English bounds, she should not stir up more trouble than ever?” demanded Elizabeth.

“That do I,” said the girl.  “Here am I, Bride Hepburn, ready to live in your Majesty’s hands as a hostage, whom you might put to death at the first stirring on her behalf.”

“Silly maid, we have no love of putting folk to death,” said Elizabeth, rather hurt.  “That is only for traitors, when they forfeit our mercy.”

“Then, O madam, madam, what has been done in her name cannot forfeit mercy for her!  She was shut up in prison; I was with her day and night, and I know she had naught to do with any evil purpose towards your Majesty.  Ah! you do not believe me!  I know they have found her guilty, and that is not what I came to say,” she continued, getting bewildered in her earnestness for a moment.  “No.  But, gracious Queen, you have spared her often; I have heard her say that you had again and again saved her life from those who would fain have her blood.”

“It is true,” said Elizabeth, half softened.

“Save her then now, madam,” entreated the girl.  “Let her go beyond their reach, yet where none shall find her to use her name against you.  Let me go to her at Fotheringhay with these terms.  She will consent and bless and pray for you for ever; and here am I, ready to do what you will with me!”

“To hang about Court, and be found secretly wedded to some base groom!”

“No, madam.  I give you my solemn word as a Queen’s daughter that I will never wed, save by your consent, if my mother’s life be granted.  The King of Scots knows not that there is such a being.  He need never know it.  I will thank and bless you whether you throw me into the Tower, or let me abide as the humblest of your serving-women, under the name I have always borne, Cicely Talbot.”

“Foolish maid, thou mayest purpose as thou sayest, but I know what wenches are made of too well to trust thee.”

“Ah madam, pardon me, but you know not how strong a maiden’s heart can be for a mother’s sake.  Madam! you have never seen my mother.  If you but knew her patience and her tenderness, you would know how not only I, but every man or woman in her train, would gladly lay down life and liberty for her, could we but break her bonds, and win her a shelter among those of her own faith.”

“Art a Papist?” asked the Queen, observing the pronoun.

“Not so, an’t please your Majesty.  This gentleman bred me up in our own Church, nor would I leave it.”

“Strange—­strange matters,” muttered Elizabeth, “and they need to be duly considered.”

“I will then abide your Majesty’s pleasure,” said Cicely, “craving license that it may be at Fotheringhay with my mother.  Then can I bear her the tidings, and she will write in full her consent to these terms.  O madam, I see mercy in your looks.  Receive a daughter’s blessing and thanks!”