"A son of my Lord of Northumberland, forsooth!" cried he. "Doth earth bear no men but such as be sons of my Lord of Northumberland? Would the rascal gather all the coronets of England on his head, and those of his sons and daughters? 'Tis my Lord of Northumberland here, and there, and everywhere--" "Up-stairs and down-stairs, and in my Lady's chamber," sang Mr Underhill, in a fine bass voice; for even in that musical age, he was renowned for his proficiency in the art. "In the King's chamber, certes," said Dr Thorpe. "I would with all mine heart he could be thence profligated." [Driven out.] "Methinks I can see one in the far distance that may do that," said Mr Rose in his grave manner. "At the furthest, my Lord of Northumberland will not live for ever." "But how many sons hath he?" groaned Dr Thorpe. "`Such apple-tree, such fruit' If the leopard leave ten or a dozen cubs, we be little better for shooting him." "My Lord Henry, allgates, is no leopard cub," said Mr Underhill. "I know the boy; and a brave, gallant lad he is." "Go on," said Dr Thorpe. "The rest?" "My Lord of Warwick," pursued he, "is scarce the equal of his brother, yet is he undeserving of the name of a leopard cub; and my Lord Ambrose, as meseemeth, shall make a worthy honourable man. For what toucheth my Lord Guilford, I think he is not unkindly, but he hath not wit equal to his father; and as for Robin [the famous Earl of Leicester]--well, you shall call him a leopard cub an' you will. He hath all his father's wit and craft, and more than his father's grace and favour; and he looketh to serve as a courtier." "He shall carry on, then, in his father's place," said Dr Thorpe, with a groan. "Methinks he shall either make a right good man, or a right bad one," answered Mr Underhill. "He hath wit for aught." "And who," said Dr Thorpe, "ever heard of a Dudley a good man?" "Is that the very gentleman," asked Mrs Rose, "that did marry with the great heir, Mistress Robsart?" "Ay,--Mrs Amie," answered Mr Underhill; "and a gentle one she is. A deal too good for Robin Dudley." "Must we then look to my Lord Robert as the Cerberus of the future?" said Mr Rose, smiling. "The Devil is not like to run short of servants," answered Dr Thorpe, grimly. "If it be not he, it will be an other." The clouds returned after the rain; but they gathered softly. Unheralded by any suspicion on the part of England as to the fate which it bore, came that fatal first of December which was the beginning of the end. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, was arraigned that day in Westminster Hall. And round the doors England pressed, yet in more hope than fear. A mere farce, she thought: he must be acquitted, of course. She prepared to welcome him home in triumph.