The fires of Smithfield were in the remembrance of this generation.  The cities of Flanders were writhing under the Spanish yoke; “the richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain,” were already mustering to reduce England to the condition of Antwerp or Haarlem; and only Elizabeth’s life had seemed to lie between them and her who was bound by her religion to bring all this upon the peaceful land.  No wonder those who knew not the tissue of cruel deceits and treacheries that had worked the final ruin of the captive, and believed her guilty of fearful crimes, should have burst forth in a wild tumult of joy, such as saddened even the Protestant soul of Mr. Heatherthwayte, as he turned homewards after giving his blessing to the mournful young girl, whom the boat was bearing over the muddy waters of the Hull.

They soon had her on board, but the preparations were hardly yet complete, nor could the vessel make her way down the river until the evening tide.  It was a bright clear day, and a seat on deck was arranged for the lady, where she sat with Humfrey beside her, holding her cloak round her, and telling her—­strange theme for a bridal day--all he thought well to tell her of those last hours, when Mary had truly shown herself purified by her long patience, and exalted by the hope that her death had in it somewhat of martyrdom.

His father meantime superintended the work of the crew, being extremely anxious to lose no time, and to sail before night.  Mr. Heatherthwayte’s anxiety brought him on board again, for he wanted to ask more questions about the Bridgefield doings ere beginning his ponderings and his prayers respecting his decision for his little daughter; nor had he taken his final leave when the anchor was at length weighed, and the ship had passed by the strange old gables, timbered houses, and open lofts, that bounded the harbour out from the Hull river into the Humber itself, while both the Talbots breathed more freely; but as the chill air of evening made itself felt, they persuaded Cicely to let her husband take her down to her cabin.

It was at this moment, in the deepening twilight, that the ship was hailed, and a boat came alongside, and there was a summons, “In the Queen’s name,” and a slightly made lean figure in black came up the side.  He was accompanied by a stout man, apparently a constable.  There was a moment’s pause, then the new-comer said “Kinsman Talbot—­”

“I count no kindred with betrayers, Cuthbert Langston,” said Richard, drawing himself up with folded arms.

“Scorn me not, Richard Talbot,” was the reply; “you stood my friend once when none other did so, and for that cause have I hindered much hurt to you and yours.  But for me you had been in a London jail for these three weeks past.  Nor do I come to do you evil now.  Give up the wench, and your name shall never be brought forward, since the matter is to be private.  Behold a warrant from the Council empowering me to bring before them the person of Bride Hepburn, otherwise called Cicely Talbot.”