“I trow that it is,” said Cis, “but the matter is to be put into the hands of M. de Chateauneuf, the French Ambassador.  I have a letter here,” laying her hand on her bosom, “which, the Queen declares, will thoroughly prove to him who I am, and if I go as under his protection, none can do my father any harm.”

Susan hoped so, but she trusted to understand all better from her husband, though her heart failed her as much as, or even perhaps more than, did that of poor little Cis.  Master Richard had sped on before their tardy conveyance, and had had time to give the heads of his intelligence before they reached the Manor house, and when they were conducted to my Lady’s chamber, they saw him, by the light of a large fire, standing before the Earl and Countess, cap in hand, much as a groom or gamekeeper would now stand before his master and mistress.

The Earl, however, rose to receive the ladies; but the Countess, no great observer of ceremony towards other people, whatever she might exact from them towards herself, cried out, “Come hither, come hither, Cicely Talbot, and tell me how it fares with the poor lady,” and as the maiden came forward in the dim light—­ “Ha!  What!  Is’t she?” she cried, with a sudden start.  “On my faith, what has she done to thee?  Thou art as like her as the foal to the mare.”

This exclamation disconcerted the visitors, but luckily for them the Earl laughed and declared that he could see no resemblance in Mistress Cicely’s dark brows to the arched ones of the Queen of Scots, to which his wife replied testily, “Who said there was?  The maid need not be uplifted, for there’s nothing alike between them, only she hath caught the trick of her bearing so as to startle me in the dark, my head running on the poor lady.  I could have sworn ’twas she coming in, as she was when she first came to our care fifteen years agone.  Pray Heaven she may not haunt the place!  How fareth she in health, wench?”

“Well, madam, save when the rheumatic pains take her,” said Cicely.

“And still of good courage?”

“That, madam, nothing can daunt.”

Seats, though only joint stools, were given to the ladies, but Susan found herself no longer trembling at the effects of the Countess’s insolence upon Cicely, who seemed to accept it all as a matter of course, and almost of indifference, though replying readily and with a gentle grace, most unlike her childish petulance.

Many close inquiries from the Earl and Countess were answered by Richard and the young lady, until they had a tolerably clear idea of the situation.  The Countess wept bitterly, and to Cicely’s great amazement began bemoaning herself that she was not still the poor lady’s keeper.  It was a shame to put her where there were no women to feel for her.  Lady Shrewsbury had apparently forgotten that no one had been so virulent against the Queen as herself.

And when it was impossible to deny that things looked extremely ill, and that Burghley and Walsingham seemed resolved not to let slip this opportunity of ridding themselves of the prisoner, my Lady burst out with, “Ah! there it is!  She will die, and my promise is broken, and she will haunt me to my dying day, all along of that venomous toad and spiteful viper, Mary Talbot.”