Cicely responded by caresses, and indeed felt herself more than ever before the actual daughter, as she heard with indignation of James’s desertion of his mother’s cause; but Mary, whatever she said herself, would not brook to hear her speak severely of him.  “The poor laddie,” she said, “he was no better than a prisoner among those dour Scots lords,” and she described in graphic terms some of her own experiences of royalty in Scotland.

The other ladies all welcomed the newcomer as the best medicine both to the spirit and body of their Queen.  She was regularly enrolled among the Queen’s maidens, and shared their meals.  Mary dined and supped alone, sixteen dishes being served to her, both on “fish and flesh days,” and the reversion of these as well as a provision of their own came to the higher table of her attendants, where Cicely ranked with the two Maries, Jean Kennedy, and Sir Andrew Melville.  There was a second table, at which ate the two secretaries, Mrs. Curll, and Elizabeth Curll, Gilbert’s sister, a most faithful attendant on the Queen.  As before, she shared the Queen’s chamber, and there it was that Mary asked her, “Well, mignonne, and how fares it with thine ardent suitor?  Didst say that he rode with thee?”

“As far as the Manor gates, madam.”

“And what said he?  Was he very pressing?”

’Nay, madam, I was ever with my father—­Mr. Talbot.”

“And he keeps the poor youth at arm’s length.  Thine other swain, the sailor, his son, is gone off once more to rob the Spaniards, is he not?—­so there is the more open field.”

“Ay! but not till he had taught Antony a lesson.”

The Queen made Cis tell the story of the encounter, at which she was much amused.  “So my princess, even unknown, can make hearts beat and swords ring for her.  Well done! thou art worthy to be one of the maids in Perceforest or Amadis de Gaul, who are bred in obscurity, and set all the knights a sparring together.  Tourneys are gone out since my poor gude-father perished by mischance at one, or we would set thee aloft to be contended for.”

“O madame mere, it made me greatly afraid, and poor Humfrey had to go off without leave-taking, my Lady Countess was so wrathful.”

“So my Lady Countess is playing our game, is she!  Backing Babington and banishing Talbot?  Ha, ha,” and Mary again laughed with a merriment that rejoiced the faithful ears of Jean Kennedy, under her bedclothes, but somewhat vexed Cicely.  “Indeed, madam mother,” she said, “if I must wed under my degree, I had rather it were Humfrey than Antony Babington.”

“I tell thee, simple child, thou shall wed neither.  A woman does not wed every man to whom she gives a smile and a nod.  So long as thou bear’st the name of this Talbot, he is a good watch-dog to hinder Babington from winning thee:  but if my Lady Countess choose to send the swain here, favoured by her to pay his court to thee, why then, she gives us the best chance we have had for many a long day of holding intercourse with our friends without, and a hope of thee will bind him the more closely.”