“Humphrey, I have news.”
“Good or bad?” I asked.
“Neither,” said he, “for it means we must part.”
“I call that bad news. How is it, Ludar?”
“Our fellow-voyager,” said he, and I could see he spoke nervously like one who doubts his listener, “is in the service of my Queen, Mary of Scotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was your Queen.”
“Heaven forbid!” said I. “And as for this stranger, I mistrusted him all along. How calls he himself?”
“He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal men to the Queen’s service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies in prison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is not an enemy’s. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such a plight?”
“Were my Queen a traitor—” I began, and stopped.
“I cannot help myself,” said he. “I owe her my life. Only one woman else could claim it, and her I have lost.”
“But,” said I, “are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap to your ruin? What if he be a spy and no more?”