"Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait," said Elizabeth; "between you I scarcely know how to keep my word. They call me fickle enough already. But Frank Walsingham shall do it for me. He is certainly at the back of it all, and he shall manage it. It shall be done at once. Call a page, Minnie." Mary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, opened a door that Anthony had not noticed, and beckoned sharply; in a moment or two a page was bowing before Elizabeth. "Is Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?" she asked,--"then bring him here," she ended, as the boy bowed again. "And you too," she went on, "shall hear that I keep my word,"--she pointed towards the door whence the page had come.--"Stand there," she said, "and leave the door ajar." Mary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went together. "Aha!" said Elizabeth, "not in my presence." Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy. * * * * They went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelled room with a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or a page within it. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down to wait. "Oh, thank God!" whispered Anthony. Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door. "Now, now, no love-making within there!" Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the ripple of a lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled again and nodded at Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough and tuneful, began to sing a verse of the little love-song of Harrington's, _Whence comes my love?_ It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to some one to come in. Anthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two, which doubtless represented Walsingham's obeisance. Then the Queen's voice began again, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner room listened breathlessly. "I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without any talk or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me." There was silence, and then Walsingham's deep tones. "Your Grace has but to command." "His name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest." A longer silence followed. "I do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances." "I do, sir, or I should not interfere." "The feeling of the people was very strong." "Well, and what of that?" "It will be a risk of your Grace's favour with them." "Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the matter? And do you think I fear my people's wrath?" There was silence again. "Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?" "I have nothing to say, your Grace." "Then it will be done?" "I do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless there is a way." "Then you will find it, sir, immediately," rang out the Queen's metallic tones. (Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed lips.)