It was a dull gloomy day, the first day of "chill October." The envoys stood on the deck of the fly-ship as she cleared out of Calais harbour, and they watched the fast-receding vista of the old English town, the last remnant of the once vast Continental possessions of the Plantagenet kings.

The flag of St. George hung loosely on the summit of the lofty tower of Notre Dame. The rain had sodden it, and there was little wind to throw out its heavy folds.

There was much cause why Geoffrey, William and Ralph should rejoice and be glad. Their mission was drawing to an end, and all things had gone happily. They had passed through many dangers, and a Divine Providence had surely watched over them. Soon they would be in London, and a rapturous welcome awaited them at Gray's Inn!

Yet these were three patriotic young Englishmen, and an indefinable oppression weighed down their spirits as they caught their last view of the flag of St. George floating over Calais. A prophetic intimation of evil oppressed their hearts.

They had lately been brought into close contact with the gallant soldiers of France; they had fought against Montmorency and Coligni; they could appreciate the desperate valour of a Guise!

How would the worn-out and meagre garrison of Calais, defending its crumbling walls, withstand the onslaught of such men?

"Oh, brother," said Geoffrey, as he laid his hand on William's shoulder, "I fear for Calais!"

"And I also," said William.

"And I," said Ralph, and the hearts of the young men were heavy within them.

But presently the sun broke through a bank of clouds, and lo! there, right in front of them, were the white cliffs of dear old England.

"Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."

"God save England!" cried Geoffrey, and they flung up their caps with joy.

Soon they were in Dover, and as the evening came on they were galloping on three stout horses into Canterbury. They made no stay in the grand old cathedral city, but rode quickly through it.

At Rochester, where the grim old castle built by William de Corbeuil frowned upon them, they halted to refresh themselves and their horses.

On through the night for London!

They were crossing Blackheath at a gentle canter when a slight interruption to their progress occurred. It was a moonless night, but the stars were shining brightly. A small band of horsemen barred their road, and a rough voice called out "Halt!"

"Certainly," cried Geoffrey merrily, as he reined up his horse, and his sword rattled as he drew it from its steel scabbard, a proceeding instantly imitated by his companions. "What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" he cried. "A merry passage of arms on the Queen's highway? By all means; you do us much honour!"

But the night rufflers had seen and heard enough, and in a moment they were disappearing in the darkness. Perhaps they had thought to encounter three harmless travellers; they had no mind to display their valour against three soldiers of the English contingent!

With a loud laugh the travellers galloped on.

Soon they were threading their way carefully through the narrow streets of the suburbs of London, and they headed straight for Gray's Inn. They would have gone direct to Lambeth, where the Archbishop was in residence, but the hour was unseemly—the night was not yet past.

So they rode to Gray's Inn, where they aroused the watchmen at the stables, and, like good soldiers, saw to the needs of their horses ere they cared for themselves. The day was dawning as they presented themselves at the great door of the Treasurer's lodgings and woke up the sleepy night porter, who was slumbering in his cell.

Glad was old Robin to see his young masters, of whom nothing had been heard at Gray's Inn for many a day. They were neither hungry nor thirsty, for they had supped well at Rochester; yet the porter was able to find some wine and bread for the weary travellers.

But their chief need was rest, and they at once sought their way to their well-known rooms, which had not been occupied since they left them.

They would sleep, they told Robin, for the next three hours, and at breakfast time they would present themselves to Sir John and Mistress Susan, who might be informed of their arrival when they descended to the breakfast room.

"Oh, thank God, to be at home once more!" cried Ralph.

"Yes, let us thank Him together," said Geoffrey gravely, and the three young soldiers knelt in silence. Then they sought the much needed rest, and were soon in deep sleep.

It was eight o'clock when the sound of the gong aroused the sleepers, and, after a hasty preparation, they descended to the breakfast room.

Ah! what a meeting was that.

There stood Sir John, lost in wonder and delight; there was Susan, clad in some bewitching morning costume, her long fair hair loosely tied with some bright ribbons and falling in masses over her shoulders.

"My boys, my boys," cried Sir John, as he embraced them, kissing them on both cheeks, "welcome home!"

Then came Susan's turn, and joy shone in her fair eyes as she kissed them all, Geoffrey not being excepted.

It was long ere they could sit down to breakfast, so much had they to tell and to ask. Eating and drinking were much too prosaic occupations for such a time as that!

But there was an air of gravity on Sir John's face as he presently asked the boys what brought them home so suddenly; when last he heard of them they were on service at St. Quentin.

Then Geoffrey told briefly the history of their special mission, reserving all details for some future occasion.

"And now we must hie to Lambeth," said he, "for our business with the Cardinal is urgent."

"You cannot see him until after the hour of ten," replied Sir John, "when the service in Lambeth Chapel ends. Until that service is over his Eminence receives no man. I will send a messenger to him, informing him of your arrival and your business, asking for an early audience."

Sir John adjourned to the library, and the letter was written and despatched immediately.

Then the whole party met again in that noble room, and Sir John proceeded to tell the envoys of the present position of affairs in England.

"The Queen," said he, "is rapidly failing in health, and the Romanist party is in grave alarm, especially at Court, where the greatest gloom prevails. All eyes turn to the Princess Elizabeth, who is the hope of the Reformation party, which is both numerous and strong; already the courtiers are flocking to Hatfield, where Elizabeth resides.

"Cardinal Pole, also, is becoming each day feebler in body, and his illness is aggravated by the treatment he has received at the hands of Pope Paul the Fourth—who has summoned him to Rome to answer to various charges brought against him, amongst others the charge of heresy. The Pope has revoked his Legation, and has appointed Cardinal Peto as his Legate to England.

"The Queen sternly resists these papal measures; she refuses to allow Pole to leave the kingdom, and she will not allow Peto to enter it. All the ports are watched, and no messengers from Rome are admitted to England. Alas! poor Queen," cried Sir John, "deserted by her husband, and harassed by the Pope for whom she has done so much, who would not pity her?

"The fires of Smithfield, and at a hundred other places, have quenched whatsoever love her subjects once had for her. They distrust Philip and hate the Spaniards with so mortal a hatred, that no man of that race dare appear openly in the streets of London, and they are fleeing from England in shoals; our friend Don Diego left last week.

"For Cardinal Pole much popular sympathy exists. His noble birth and blameless life plead for him, and the mercy he has shown to many a poor prisoner is alleged by the people to be the cause of his present disgrace at Rome."

So the discourse went on till Sir John's messenger to Lambeth returned; the Cardinal would receive the envoys at once, and forthwith the young men rose to obey the summons.

The clocks were striking ten as the envoys entered the palace of Lambeth; they were conducted immediately to the Cardinal's presence.

He was busily writing as they entered the audience chamber. It was plainly furnished; there were no luxuries, no ostentation here.

He rose to greet them, and, as he did so, his wan face lit up with a kindly smile. They knelt on one knee and kissed the hand he extended to them.

"Welcome, my sons," he said; "you come from St. Quentin and Calais, Sir John Jefferay tells me, as envoys from the King."

Geoffrey bowed low as he handed their credentials to the Cardinal, among them a letter from Philip to his Eminence. This letter Cardinal Pole proceeded to read at once.

"I perceive," he said at length, "that his Majesty is greatly concerned respecting the condition of Calais, and that he sent ye thither that you might report to the Government the true state of things in that town."

Geoffrey then presented to the Cardinal a letter from the Lord Wentworth, in which the urgent needs of Calais were set forth for the Government's information. Pole read this carefully.

"My sons," he said, "you have been eye-witnesses of the things of which this letter treats; now tell me what you have seen; I know that you are good men and true, and that you will neither conceal nor exaggerate the needs and condition of the town of Calais."

Then Geoffrey proceeded in grave and carefully considered words to give their report.

He spoke of the weakness in numbers of the garrison, and of their inefficiency through age and decrepitude. He set forth the lack of the munitions of war, the antiquity of the artillery and the means of defence generally. He described the ruinous condition of the fortifications, and especially the state of the moats. And to all this William and Ralph testified their assent.

Then the Cardinal questioned them on many points, and the envoys duly replied.

"These things must be remedied, and I will see Lord Arundel about them to-day," said the Cardinal. "I hear that the English contingent return home shortly; it may be possible to induce some of them to re-enlist for the defence of Calais under Lord Gray, who knows the town well. At any rate, I thank you heartily for your report, and the matter shall be taken in hand at once.

"Now tell me, when last did you see King Philip?"

"Four days since, at St. Quentin," replied Geoffrey.

"You must have travelled very quickly," said the Cardinal.

"We did not spare our horses, your Eminence," replied Geoffrey, with a smile.

"You are brave young soldiers," said Pole warmly, "and you deserve well of your Queen and country.

"I will inform her Majesty of your return to London, and as I know that she greatly desires to hear news from St. Quentin, I doubt not but that she will send for you. Hold yourselves at liberty to come to Court to-night. If the Queen be sufficiently well to receive you I will send you a message to that effect.

"And now I bid you 'good-day.' I would fain detain you longer, but business of State awaits me, and my time is not my own. Meanwhile you can prepare for me a written report of the state and condition of Calais."

And so the good Cardinal dismissed them, and they hastened back to Gray's Inn.

The evening was closing in, supper was over, and a happy family party was gathered together in the library.

To-morrow many friends would join them, to welcome the return of the travellers; there would be Don Renard, Sir Philip Broke, the Lord Mayor, and other distinguished guests; but to-night theirs was a joy with which "the stranger intermeddleth not": it was a purely family gathering. Much they talked of the battle and siege of St. Quentin, much had they to tell of Egmont, Horn, Montmorency, and Coligni; but it was the ride through the forest and the encounter with the "gueux" which held Susan spellbound. Her eyes were fastened on the young warriors with irrepressible admiration, and glistened with love as she listened.

Then the interview of the morning was told, and the Cardinal's intimation that they might be wanted at Whitehall that night was not forgotten.

At this last piece of news Sir John seemed troubled.

"I foresee," he said, "that the Queen or the Cardinal will offer you some military promotion and duty which would do you much honour, and perhaps delight your hearts. But danger lies that way.

"The Queen's days are numbered—no man doubts it, and soon the Princess Elizabeth will be called to the throne. And to stand well with Mary, to be actively engaged in her service would be fatal to the statesman, soldier or lawyer when the new era dawns upon the world."

Sir John spoke in a low voice, and with extreme gravity.

"Remember also, my boys, that we Jefferays belong to the party of the Reformation; that at this very moment your father is an exile by reason of his religious opinions. Therefore I counsel you to resume your old occupation here, and, for the moment, to lay aside the sword. The time will soon come when you may re-consider the matter; I counsel you to await that hour with patience."

The young men looked grave also, for it was in their hearts that if the Cardinal asked it, they would offer him their swords in defence of Calais while there were yet time to save it.

It was at this moment that the old major-domo asked admission to the room; he brought them the news that a Queen's messenger stood at the door seeking an interview with his young masters.

The summons to Whitehall had arrived, as the envoys told Sir John when they had interviewed the messenger.

"Go, my boys, go, but remember my advice," said Sir John, as the family gathering came to an end.

The journey to Whitehall was soon accomplished. The Royal Palace was shrouded in gloom; it was but dimly lit up, for it was not a "guest night."

Alas! guest nights were rare events now that the Queen lay ill; in fact, she had withdrawn herself from almost all public functions.

The Palace was strongly guarded, and ere the young soldiers could gain admittance the officer on duty demanded the password.

It had been communicated to them by the messenger, and, strange to say, the word for the night was "St. Quentin."

Their business being ascertained, they were immediately conducted to the private room occupied by the Cardinal when he was at Whitehall, and soon they were ushered into his presence.

He was busily engaged in writing despatches at a side-table lit by wax candles, nor did he lay aside his work till the documents were signed and sealed; then he turned round and faced his visitors.

He was clad in a plain purple cassock, the only sign of his exalted rank. His handsome face was wan and pale. Alas! his health was fast failing, as all men knew.

"Welcome, my sons," he said; "the Queen is anxiously awaiting your arrival, though the hour grows late; we will go to her at once," and rising he led the way to the royal apartments.

Various corridors and chambers were traversed; they were quite empty save for the halberdiers who kept guard in the palace.

"Stay here a moment," said the Cardinal in a low voice, as they reached a richly furnished ante-chamber, at the end of which rich curtains hung.

Through these the Cardinal passed; a minute later he rejoined the envoys, saying—

"Her Majesty will see you, weary as she is in mind and body; follow me."

They entered Queen Mary's boudoir, the two ladies-in-waiting leaving the room on the Cardinal's signal.

Mary was reclining on a soft couch; she rose to a sitting posture as she saw the young men, and graciously extended her hand, which they kissed as they fell on one knee.

She was very pale, and there were marks of acute suffering in her drawn and wasted face.

"His Eminence tells me that you are just arrived in London from St. Quentin; when did you leave that town?"

"Four days since, may it please your Majesty," answered Geoffrey, now standing erect.

"Only four days," murmured the Queen; "how small doth seem the space which separates me from my lord the King!"

She sighed deeply; then, recovering herself, she asked—

"How fares his Majesty? did he take part in the siege?"

"The King is in excellent health," replied Geoffrey, "and he took an active part in the siege of St. Quentin."

"You saw him there?" inquired Mary.

"Many times, your Majesty; he was the cynosure of all eyes as he rode through the flaming streets clad in splendid armour."

"Yes, I know," replied Mary, a wan smile flickering awhile on her careworn face; "he would surely be found where duty and danger called him.

"Oh, I can call him to mind as he sat on his war-horse, wearing that wondrous suit of Milanese armour which becomes him so well. I mind me that it was in that suit that Titian painted him; I have a copy of it."

For a moment the Queen mused, then she spoke again.

"Under what circumstances saw you the King in St. Quentin? Methinks he would thrust himself somewhat recklessly into danger. Did he charge at the head of his troops?—tell me all."

"He was ever found where the fight was hottest," replied Geoffrey, "and he was greatly concerned for the fate of the women and children; he had them conducted in safety out of the city."

"Oh! gallant Philip," murmured the Queen, as if she spoke to herself, and was unconscious that others were present. "Go on, I pray you!" she said aloud.

"He was greatly concerned for the safety of the cathedral, and he ordered the English contingent to see that it suffered no injury," continued Geoffrey. "While the siege was hotly proceeding he ordered the monks of the cathedral to convey the relics of St. Quentin, which lay enshrined there, to his own tent outside the town."

The Queen was greatly moved, and she beckoned the Cardinal to her side.

"You hear, father?" she whispered to him. "Sometimes I have thought that you misjudged the King, that you did not fully estimate his fervent piety, nor know how easily his noble heart was ever open to the cry for mercy, how full it was of tenderness and pity!"

Poor Mary, poor infatuated Queen!

Suddenly she put her hand to her side as a spasm of pain seized her.

"Tell Lady Howard to come hither," she said to Pole, "and to bring with her my strongest essences."

This being done, the Queen seemed to recover, and she would have made further inquiries of the envoys, but the Cardinal intervened.

"Will your Majesty pardon me?" he said; "the hour grows late, and these gallant young soldiers can wait on you to-morrow; I fear that your Majesty is exerting yourself too much."

Scarcely with these words had the Cardinal persuaded Mary, but he had further arguments at command.

"It is the hour for Vespers, your Majesty, and Father Petre awaits us in the oratory."

"Yes, you are right," replied the Queen, with sudden willingness; "let us offer to Heaven our thanks for this blessed news from St. Quentin, ere my strength fail me."

The interview ended as it began; Mary extended her poor wasted hand, and the envoys knelt to kiss it.

They never saw Queen Mary again.