"Oh! I know not. 'Twas Humfrey fell on him. Hark!"

"'Tis father's voice," said Susan. "Thank God! I know by the sound
no harm is done! But how was it, child?"

Cis told with more coherence now, but the tears in her eyes and
colour deepening: "I was taking in Humfrey's kerchiefs from the
bleaching on the grass, when Master Babington--he had brought me a
plume of pheasant's feathers from the hunting, and he began. O
mother, is it sooth? He said my Lord had sent him."

"That is true, my child, but you know we have no choice but to refuse
thee."

"Ay, mother, and Antony knows."

"Not thy true birth, child?"

"Not that, but the other story. So he began to say that if I were
favourable--Mother, do men always do like that?" Hiding her face
against the trusty breast, "And when I drew back, and said I could
not and would not hearken to such folly--"

"That was well, dear child."

"He would have it that I should have to hear him, and he went down on
his knee, and snatched at my hand. And therewith came a great howl
of rage like an angry lion, and Humfrey bounded right over the
sweetbrier fence, and cried out, 'Off, fellow! No Papist traitor
knave shall meddle with her.' And then Antony gave him back the lie