“I guessed it,” said the Queen, letting her hand rest on his shoulder.  “And for her thou wilt endure, if needful, suspicion, danger, exile?”

“They will be welcome, so I may shield her.”

“I trust thee,” she said, and she took his firm strong hand into her own white wasted one.  “But will thy father consent?  Thou art his eldest son and heir.”

“He loves her like his own daughter.  My brother may have the lands.”

“’Tis strange,” said Mary, “that in wedding a princess, ’tis no crown, no kingdom, that is set before thee, only the loss of thine own inheritance.  For now that the poor child has made herself known to Elizabeth, there will be no safety for her between these seas.  I have considered it well.  I had thought of sending her abroad with my French servants, and making her known to my kindred there.  That would have been well if she could have accepted the true faith, or if—­if her heart had not been thine; but to have sent her as she is would only expose her to persecution, and she hath not the mounting spirit that would cast aside love for the sake of rising.  She lived too long with thy mother to be aught save a homely Cis.  I would have made a princess of her, but it passes my powers.  Nay, the question is, whether it may yet be possible to prevent the Queen from laying hands on her.”

“My father is still here,” said Humfrey, “and I deem not that any orders have come respecting her.  Might not he crave permission to take her home, that is, if she will leave your Grace?”

“I will lay my commands on her!  It is well thought of,” said the Queen.  “How soon canst thou have speech with him?”

“He is very like to come to my post,” said Humfrey, “and then we can walk the gallery and talk unheard.”

“It is well.  Let him make his demand, and I will have her ready to depart as early as may be to-morrow morn.  Bourgoin, I would ask thee to call the maiden hither.”

Cicely appeared from the apartment where she had been sitting with the other ladies.

“Child,” said the Queen, as she came in, “is thy mind set on wedding an archduke?”

“Marriage is not for me, madam,” said Cicely, perplexed and shaken by this strange address and by Humfrey’s presence.

“Nay, didst not once tell me of a betrothal now many years ago?  What wouldst say if thine own mother were to ratify it?”

“Ah! madam,” said Cicely, blushing crimson however, “but I pledged myself never to wed save with Queen Elizabeth’s consent.”

“On one condition,” said the Queen.  “But if that condition were not observed by the other party—­”

“How—­what, mother!” exclaimed Cicely, with a scream.  “There is no fear—­Humfrey, have you heard aught?”

“Nothing is certain,” said Mary, calmly.  “I ask thee not to break thy word.  I ask thee, if thou wert free to marry, if thou wouldst be an Austrian or Lorraine duchess, or content thee with an honest English youth whose plighted word is more precious to him than gold.”