“Only, madam, who was it that told your Grace that I was a stranger?”

“The marks, bairnie, the marks,” said Mary.  “They told their own tale to good Nurse Jeanie; ay, and to Gorion, whom we blamed for his cruelty in branding my poor little lammie.”

“Ah! but,” said Cicely, “did not yonder woman with the beads and bracelets bid him look?”

If it had been lighter, Cicely would have seen that the Queen was not pleased at the inquiry, but she only heard the answer from Jean’s bed, “Hout no, I wad she knew nought of thae brands.  How should she?”

“Nay,” said Cicely, “she—­no, it was Tibbott the huckster-woman told me long ago that I was not what I seemed, and that I came from the north—­I cannot understand!  Were they the same?”

“The bairn kens too much,” said Jean.  “Dinna ye deave her Grace with your speirings, my lammie.  Ye’ll have to learn to keep a quiet sough, and to see mickle ye canna understand here.”

“Silence her not, good nurse,” said the Queen, “it imports us to know this matter.  What saidst thou of Tibbott?”

“She was the woman who got Antony Babington into trouble,” explained Cicely.  “I deemed her a witch, for she would hint strange things concerning me, but my father always believed she was a kinsman of his, who was concerned in the Rising of the North, and who, he said, had seen me brought in to Hull from the wreck.”

“Ay?” said the Queen, as a sign to her to continue.

“And meseemed,” added Cicely timidly, “that the strange woman at Tideswell who talked of beads and bracelets minded me of Tibbott, though she was younger, and had not her grizzled brows; but father says that cannot be, for Master Cuthbert Langston is beyond seas at Paris.”

“Soh! that is well,” returned Mary, in a tone of relief.  “See, child.  That Langston of whom you speak was a true friend of mine.  He has done much for me under many disguises, and at the time of thy birth he lived as a merchant at Hull, trading with Scotland.  Thus it may have become known to him that the babe he had seen rescued from the wreck was one who had been embarked at Dunbar.  But no more doth he know.  The secret of thy birth, my poor bairn, was entrusted to none save a few of those about me, and all of those who are still living thou hast already seen.  Lord Flemyng, who put thee on board, believed thee the child of James Hepburn of Lillieburn, the archer, and of my poor Mary Stewart, a kinswoman of mine ain; and it was in that belief doubtless that he, or Tibbott, as thou call’st him, would have spoken with thee.”

“But the woman at Tideswell,” said Cis, who was getting bewildered—­ “Diccon said that she spake to Master Gorion.”

“That did she, and pointed thee out to him.  It is true.  She is another faithful friend of mine, and no doubt she had the secret from him.  But no more questions, child.  Enough that we sleep in each other’s arms.”