"Madame," said Humfrey, bowing his head low as he knelt on one knee, "it was Mr. Beale."
"Ay, and who besides?"
"Madam, I heard no name, but"—as she waited for him to speak further, he uttered in a choked voice—"it was one clad in black."
"I perceive," said Mary, looking up with a smile. "A more effectual Doctor than you, my good Bourgoin. I thank my God and my cousin Elizabeth for giving me the martyr's hope at the close of the most mournful life that ever woman lived. Nay, leave me not as yet, good Humfrey. I have somewhat to say unto thee. I have a charge for thee." Something in her tone led him to look up earnestly in her face. "Thou lovest my child, I think," she added.
The young man's voice was scarcely heard, and he only said, "Yea, madam;" but there was an intensity in the tone and eyes which went to her heart.
"Thou dost not speak, but thou canst do. Wilt thou take her, Humfrey, and with her, all the inheritance of peril and sorrow that dogs our unhappy race?"
"Oh"—and there was a mighty sob that almost cut off his voice—"My life is already hers, and would be spent in her service wherever, whatever she was."
"I guessed it," said the Queen, letting her hand rest on his shoulder. "And for her thou wilt endure, if needful, suspicion, danger, exile?"
"They will be welcome, so I may shield her."
"I trust thee," she said, and she took his firm strong hand into her own white wasted one. "But will thy father consent? Thou art his eldest son and heir."