child to be palmed on me!  I will make an end of it; I can endure this no longer!  These tossings to and fro are more than I can bear, and all for one who is false, false, false, false!  My brain will bear no more.  Hap what hap, an end must be made of it.  She or I, she or I must die; and which is best for England and the faith?  That girl had well-nigh made me pity her, and it was all a vile cheat!”

Thus it was that Elizabeth sent for Davison, and bade him bring the warrant with him.

And thus it was that in the midst of dinner in the hall, on the Sunday, the 5th of February, the meine of the Castle were startled by the arrival of Mr. Beale, the Clerk of the Council, always a bird of sinister omen, and accompanied by a still more alarming figure a strong burly man clad in black velvet from head to foot.  Every one knew who he was, and a thrill of dismay, that what had been so long expected had come at last, went through all who saw him pass through the hall.  Sir Amias was summoned from table, and remained in conference with the two arrivals all through evening chapel time—­an event in itself extraordinary enough to excite general anxiety.  It was Humfrey’s turn to be on guard, and he had not long taken his station before he was called into the Queen’s apartments, where she sat at the foot of her bed, in a large chair with a small table before her.  No one was with her but her two mediciners, Bourgoin and Gorion.

“Here,” she said, “is the list our good Doctor has writ of the herbs he requires for my threatened attack of rheumatism.”

“I will endeavour, with Sir Amias’s permission, to seek them in the park,” said Humfrey.

“But tell me,” said Mary, fixing her clear eyes upon him, “tell me truly.  Is there not a surer and more lasting cure for all my ills in preparation?  Who was it who arrived to-night?”

“Madame,” said Humfrey, bowing his head low as he knelt on one knee, “it was Mr. Beale.”

“Ay, and who besides?”

“Madam, I heard no name, but”—­as she waited for him to speak further, he uttered in a choked voice—­“it was one clad in black.”

“I perceive,” said Mary, looking up with a smile.  “A more effectual Doctor than you, my good Bourgoin.  I thank my God and my cousin Elizabeth for giving me the martyr’s hope at the close of the most mournful life that ever woman lived.  Nay, leave me not as yet, good Humfrey.  I have somewhat to say unto thee.  I have a charge for thee.”  Something in her tone led him to look up earnestly in her face.  “Thou lovest my child, I think,” she added.

The young man’s voice was scarcely heard, and he only said, “Yea, madam;” but there was an intensity in the tone and eyes which went to her heart.

“Thou dost not speak, but thou canst do.  Wilt thou take her, Humfrey, and with her, all the inheritance of peril and sorrow that dogs our unhappy race?”

“Oh”—­and there was a mighty sob that almost cut off his voice—­“My life is already hers, and would be spent in her service wherever, whatever she was.”