“Madam,” said she, in her soft Scotch voice, lowered considerably, but not whispering, and with her keen eyes fixed on Susan—­“Madam, what garred ye gie your bit lassie yonder marks?  Ye need not fear, that draught of Maister Gorion’s will keep her sleeping fast for a good hour or two longer, and it behoves me to ken how she cam by yonder brands.”

“She had them when she came to us,” said Susan.

“Ye’ll no persuade me that they are birth marks,” returned Mistress Jean.  “Such a thing would be a miracle in a loyal Scottish Catholic’s wean, let alone an English heretic’s.”

“No,” said Susan, who had in fact only made the answer to give herself time to think whether it were possible to summon her husband.  “They never seemed to me birth marks.”

“Woman,” said Jean Kennedy, laying a strong, though soft hand, on her wrist, “this is not gear for trifling.  Is the lass your ain bairn?  Ha!  I always thought she had mair of the kindly Scot than of the Southron about her.  Hech! so they made the puir wean captive!  Wha gave her till you to keep?  Your lord, I trow.”

“The Lord of heaven and earth,” replied Susan.  “My husband took her, the only living thing left on a wreck off the Spurn Head.”

“Hech, sirs!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy, evidently much struck, but still exercising great self-command.  “And when fell this out?”

“Two days after Low Sunday, in the year of grace 1568,” returned Susan.

“My halidome!” again ejaculated Jean, in a low voice, crossing herself.  “And what became of honest Ailie—­I mean,” catching herself up, “what befell those that went with her?”

“Not one lived,” said Susan, gravely.  “The mate of my husband’s ship took the little one from the arms of her nurse, who seemed to have been left alone with her by the crew, lashed to the wreck, and to have had her life freshly beaten out by the winds and waves, for she was still warm.  I was then lying at Hull, and they brought the babe to me, while there was still time to save her life, with God’s blessing.”

“And the vessel?” asked Jean.

“My husband held it to be the Bride of Dunbar, plying between that port and Harfleur.”

“Ay! ay!  Blessed St. Bride!” muttered Jean Kennedy, with an awe-stricken look; then, collecting herself, she added, “Were there no tokens, save these, about the little one, by which she could be known?”

“There was a gold chain with a cross, and what you call a reliquary about her little neck, and a scroll written in cipher among her swaddling bands; but they are laid up at home, at Bridgefield.”

It was a perplexing situation for this simple-hearted and truthful woman, and, on the other hand, Jean Kennedy was no less devoted and loyal in her own line, a good and conscientious woman, but shrewder, and, by nature and breeding, far less scrupulous as to absolute truth.

The one idea that Susan, in her confusion, could keep hold of was that any admission of knowledge as to who her Cis really was, would be a betrayal of her husband’s secret; and on the other hand she saw that Mrs. Kennedy, though most keen to discover everything, and no doubt convinced that the maiden was her Queen’s child, was bent on not disclosing that fact to the foster-mother.