“It would have been safer for you both,” said poor Queen Mary to Humfrey afterwards, “if I had denied her, but I could not disown my poor child, or prevent her from yet claiming royal rights.  Moreover, I have learnt enough of you Talbots to know that you would not owe your safety to falsehood from a dying woman.”

But Will’s conceit might be quite as effectual.  He was under orders to communicate the matter to no one not already aware of it, and as above all things he desired to see the execution as the most memorable spectacle he was likely to behold in his life, and he believed Cicely to be safe at Bridgefield, he thought it unnecessary to take any farther steps until that should be over.  Humfrey had listened to all with what countenance he might, and gave as little sign as possible.

But when the tragedy had been consummated, and he had seen the fair head fall, and himself withdrawn poor little Bijou from beneath his dead mistress’s garment, handing him to Jean Kennedy, he had—­with blood still curdling with horror—­gone down to the stables, taken his horse, and ridden away.

There would no doubt be pursuit so soon as Richard and Cicely were found not to be at Bridgefield; but there was a space in which to act, and Mr. Talbot at once said, “The Mastiff is well-nigh ready to sail.  Ye must be wedded to-morrow morn, and go on board without delay.”

They judged it better not to speak of this to the poor bride in her heavy grief; and Humfrey, having heard from their little hostess that Mistress Cicely lay quite still, and sent him her loving greeting, consented to avail himself of the hospitable minister’s own bed, hoping, as he confided to his father, that very weariness would hinder him from seeing the block, the axe, and the convulsed face, that had haunted him on the only previous time when he had tried to close his eyes.

Long before day Cicely heard her father’s voice bidding her awake and dress herself, and handing in a light.  The call was welcome, for it had been a night of strange dreams and sadder wakenings to the sense “it had come at last”—­yet the one comfort, “Humfrey is near.”  She dressed herself in those plain black garments she had assumed in London, and in due time came down to where her father awaited her.  She was pale, silent, and passive, and obeyed mechanically as he made her take a little food.  She looked about as if for some one, and he said, “Humfrey will meet us anon.”  Then he himself put on her cloak, hood, and muffler.  She was like one in a dream, never asking where they were going, and thus they left the house.  There was light from a waning moon, and by it he led her to the church.