She was wrestling with him then. One of his hands was hot across her mouth, the other held her throat. 'Oh fool!' his voice sounded. 'Bide you still.' He snorted with fury and held her to him. The embroidery on his chest scraped her knuckles as she tried to strike upwards at his face. Her crucifix had fallen. He strove to muffle her with his elbows, but with a blind rage of struggle she freed her wrists and, in the darkness, struck where she thought his mouth would be. Then his hand over her mouth loosened and set free her great scream. It rang down the corridor and seemed to petrify his grasp upon her. His fingers loosened--and again she was running, bent forward, crying out, in a vast thirst for mere flight. As she ran, a red patch before her eyes, distant and clear beneath the torch, took the form of the King. Her cries were still loud, but they died in her throat.... He was standing still with his fingers in his ears. 'Dear God,' she cried, 'they have laid hands upon me. They have laid hands upon me.' And she pressed her fingers hard across her throat as if to wipe away the stain of Throckmorton's touch. The King lifted his fingers from his ears. 'Bones of Jago,' he cried, 'what new whimsy is this?' 'They have laid hands upon me,' she cried and fell upon her knees. 'Why,' he said, 'here is a day nightmare. I know all your tale of a letter. Come now, pretty one. Up, pretty soul.' He bent over benevolently and stroked her hand. 'These dark passages are frightening to maids. Up now, pretty. I was thinking of thee. 'Who the devil shall harm thee?' he muttered again. 'This is mine own house. Come, pray with me. Prayer is a very soothing thing. I was bound to pray. I pray ever at nightfall. Up now. Come--pray, pray, pray!' His heavy benevolence for a moment shed a calmness upon the place. She rose, and pressing back the hair from her forehead, saw the long, still corridor, the guard beneath the torch, the doors of the chapel. She said to herself pitifully: 'What comes next?' She was too wearied to move again. Suddenly the King said: 'Child, you did well to come to me, when you came in the stables.' She leaned against the tapestry upon the wall to listen to him. 'It is true,' he admitted, 'that you have men that hate you and your house. The Bishop of Winchester did show me a letter you wrote. I do pardon it in you. It was well written.' 'Ah,' she uttered wearily, 'so you say now. But you shall change your mind ere morning.' 'Body of God, no,' he answered. 'My mind is made up concerning you. Let us call a truce to these things. It is my hour for prayer. Let us go to pray.'