those papers were that were seized is another question.”
“But my friends—the friends in the north, and—Norfolk?”
“All secure as yet. Nay, I assure your Grace I speak only what I know. The Duke of Norfolk is travelling to court, where he has been invited to dine with the Queen. We know his Grace well enough to understand how he will profit by the occasion.”
“I trust so,” answered Mary, with a sigh of relief. “But is it possible—can such a thing befal me as that none of my friends have suffered? De Naon? Curie? Were they not arrested?”
“Your Grace’s secretaries were both arrested: but that event had been provided for. Nothing was under their charge which could imperil them; and nothing within their knowledge which could compromise your Grace.”
“It is a boon from Heaven to have such a friend as you,” said Mary, her eyes filling with tears. “But I must take the warning of this event, and resign myself to my fate without further struggle.”
“My counsel, if permitted,” said the disguised priest, cheerfully, “is that your Grace should first resign yourself to sleep. That is the duty of this night. What to do and dare hereafter, we shall see hereafter.”
He proceeded to take his leave; but had to answer one or two more questions. He related that he was still consulted by the hostess as a spy on her Grace. He had established a channel of communication for letters from abroad; and any person who, appearing in any capacity before her Grace, should exhibit the signature of his Majesty of Spain, might be charged with letters as a safe post. The Earl would return as soon as he could by any means bear the journey; and his return would be very welcome. Her Grace’s devoted friends would meantime remain at hand, to protect her as far as possible from the insolence of Sir Francis Knollys. In short, her Grace’s position was in no respect worse than when she left Tutbury; but rather it was better, inasmuch as seizures had been made without result.
“What say the country folk?” asked Mary. “I fear these alarms making them spies upon my friends. What say they to these alarms?”
“Your Grace must not be displeased at the answer to that question,” replied the priest. “They say that it is by witchcraft that your Grace holds fast all eyes and all hearts. They are a wonderfully superstitious people, now that they have lost the true faith; and they will no more meddle with your Grace’s affairs than they would rummage the papers and implements of the Wise Man who lives in the wood yonder. I entreat you, madam, to take heart when all is so well.”
“I will,” said Mary; “and I will not forget whose voice gave me this comfort. May you have such peace as you have given to me!”
It rather startled the priest to see, half an hour later, her Grace and the Ladies Hamilton and Douglass walking on the terrace by moonlight, and to catch the tones even of mirth as they walked; but he said to himself that it was a natural revulsion from the terror of the last three days.
“See her,” whispered a voice on the river bank below. “By the faintest blink of moonlight, one would know her from every other. But one thirsts the more for her voice. If one could scale the height there, and nestle under the wall—”
“Felton, you are mad,” said Stansbury, laughing. “A Bedlamite would not think of scaling that rock.”
“That may be a mistake,” said Felton, quietly. “However, the sight we see is enough for this night. What a queenly heart and courage she has,—to leave her chamber, and taste the summer night, after passing through the fiery furnace of the last three days.”
“Possibly she has good news of the Duke,” Stansbury suggested, and to this his comrade made no reply.
CHAPTER VIII. POLLY BEGINS TO KNOW THE WORLD.
As the autumn advanced, the Earl of Shrewsbury recovered his health. He would have returned to Tutbury much sooner if either he could or his wife could not have been present with his charge. Her daily messengers kept up his fever beyond its necessary term; for they brought letters detailing harshnesses and indignities inflicted on the captive Queen, which the Earl felt as a sort of disgrace to his own honour. Before his physician would declare him able to travel, he was on his way to Tutbury; and within twenty-four hours of his arrival, Sir Francis Knollys was gone.
The Earl had heard and seen enough in passing through the forest and village to be satisfied that there was something wrong among the people. His lady could only say that that was a matter of course wherever the Queen of Scots inflicted her malignant presence. More definite information than this being needed, the Earl’s gentlemen were sent down to learn what they could of the state of affairs in the village and the country round. Meantime, one of the servants made known that there was a young woman then at the gate,—sent for about some silk nets for her Grace’s ladies,—a girl likely to know what the people were thinking and saying: and in a trice Polly found herself, to her great consternation, in the presence of the Earl and Countess, instead of her patron, the needleman.
“I know you, girl,” said the Countess. “You are the daughter of the yeoman at the edge of the forest.”
Polly curtseyed.
“Are you married?” asked Bess, in her blunt way.
“Perhaps going to be,” the Earl observed, seeing Polly’s confusion.
“What I am thinking of,” said the Countess, “is that somebody said, after that youth—that artisan from Switzerland—came here, that he was going to marry you: and if that did not happen to be true, the youth might serve, as he is said to be educated, to send to the university for a year, to qualify for our church here. It is a serious thing the church being closed so long. I believe it to be at the bottom of the discontent that we hear of below. The bishop says we may not reckon on any pastor from him; for half the pulpits are empty. If this youth—I forget his name—”
