r as a rival, whose
liberation would endanger his throne, and that whatever scruples he
might once have entertained had given way to English gold and Scottish
intimidation.

"The more simple was I to look for any other in the son of Darnley and
the pupil of Buchanan," said she, "but a mother's heart is slow to give
up her trust."

"And is there now no hope?" asked Cicely.

"Hope, child? Dum spiro, spero. The hope of coming forth honourably
to him and to Elizabeth is at an end. There is another mode of coming
forth," she added with a glittering eye, "a mode which shall make them
rue that they have driven patience to extremity."

"By force of arms? Oh, madam!" cried Cicely.

"And wherefore not? My noble kinsman, Guise, is the paramount ruler in
France, and will soon have crushed the heretics there; Parma is
triumphant in the Low Countries, and has only to tread out the last
remnants of faction with his iron boot. They wait only the call, which
my motherly weakness has delayed, to bring their hosts to avenge my
wrongs, and restore this island to the true faith. Then thou, child,
wilt be my heiress. We will give thee to one who will worthily bear
the sceptre, and make thee blessed at home. The Austrians make good
husbands, I am told. Matthias or Albert would be a noble mate for
thee; only thou must be trained to more princely bearing, my little
home-bred lassie."

In spite--nay, perhaps, in consequence--of these anticipations, an
entire change began for Cicely. It was as if all the romance of her
princely station had died out and the reality had set in. Her freedom
was at an end. As one of the suite of the Queen of Scots, she was as
much a prisoner as the rest; whereas before, both at Buxton and
Sheffield, she had been like a dog or kitten admitted to be petted and
played with, but living another life elsewhere, while now there was
nothing to relieve the weariness and monotony of the restraint.

Nor was the petting what it was at first. Mary was far from being in
the almost frolicsome mood which had possessed her at Buxton; her hopes
and spirits had sunk to the lowest pitch, and though she had an
admirably sweet and considerate temper, and was scarcely ever fretful
or unreasonable with her attendants, still depression, illness, and
anxiety could not but tell on her mode of dealing with her
surroundings. Sometimes she gave way entirely, and declared she should
waste away and perish in her captivity, a