What he brought himself to tell of the last scene at Fotheringhay has been mostly recorded by history, and need not here be dwelt upon.  When Bourgoin and Melville fell back, unable to support their mistress along the hall to the scaffold, the Queen had said to him, “Thou wilt do me this last service,” and had leant on his arm along the crowded hall, and had taken that moment to speak those last words for Cicely.  She had blessed James openly, and declared her trust that he would find salvation if he lived well and sincerely in the faith he had chosen.  With him she had secretly blessed her other child.

Humfrey was much shaken and could hardly command his voice to answer the questions of Master Heatherthwayte, but he so replied to them that, one by one, the phrases and turns were relinquished which the worthy man had prepared for a Sunday’s sermon on “Go see now this accursed woman and bury her, for she is a king’s daughter,” and he even began to consider of choosing for his text something that would bid his congregation not to judge after the sight of their eyes, nor condemn after the hearing of their ears.

When Humfrey had eaten and drunk, and the ruddy hue was returning to his cheek, Mr. Heatherthwayte discovered that he must speak with his churchwarden that night.  Probably the pleasure of communicating the tidings that the deed was accomplished added force to the consideration that the father and son would rather be alone together, for he lighted his lantern with alacrity, and carried off Dust-and-Ashes with him.

Then Humfrey had more to tell which brooked no delay.  On the day after the departure of his father and Cicely, Will Cavendish had arrived, and Humfrey had been desired to demand from the prisoner an immediate audience for that gentleman.  Mary had said, “This is anent the child.  Call him in, Humfrey,” and as Cavendish had passed the guard he had struck his old comrade on the shoulder and observed, “What gulls we have at Hallamshire.”

He had come out from his conference fuming, and desiring to hear from Humfrey whether he were aware of the imposture that had been put on the Queen and upon them all, and to which yonder stubborn woman still chose to cleave—­little Cis Talbot supposing herself a queen’s daughter, and they all, even grave Master Richard, being duped.  It was too much for Will!  A gentleman, so nearly connected with the Privy Council, was not to be deceived like these simple soldiers and sailors, though it suited Queen Mary’s purposes to declare the maid to be in sooth her daughter, and to refuse to disown her.  He supposed it was to embroil England for the future that she left such a seed of mischief.

And old Paulett had been fool enough to let the girl leave the Castle, whereas Cavendish’s orders had been to be as secret as possible lest the mischievous suspicion of the existence of such a person should spread, but to arrest her and bring her to London as soon as the execution should be over; when, as he said, no harm would happen to her provided she would give up the pretensions with which she had been deceived.