Katharine imagined then that it was some new flame of the Magister Udal's that was troubling the girl, and this troubled her too, for she did not like that her maids should be played with by men, and she loved Margot for her past loyalties, readiness, and companionship. * * * * * She came out of her thoughts to say to her uncle, remembering his speech about her hands-- 'Aye; I have heard that Anne Boleyn had six fingers upon her right hand.' 'She had six upon each, but she concealed it,' he answered. 'It was her greatest grief.' Katharine realised that his sardonic tone, his bitter yellow face, the croak in his voice, and his stiff gait--all these things were signs of his hostility to her. And his mention of Anne Boleyn, who had been Queen, much as she was, and of her bitter fate, this mention, if it could not be a threat, was, at least, a reminder meant to give her fears and misgiving. When she had been a child--and afterwards, until the very day when she had been shown for Queen--her uncle had always treated her with a black disdain, as he treated all the rest of the world. When he had--and it was rarely enough--come to visit her grandmother, the old Duchess of Norfolk, he had always been like that. Through the old woman's huge, lonely, and ugly halls he had always stridden, halting a little over the rushes, and all creatures must keep out of his way. Once he had kicked her little dog, once he had pushed her aside; but probably, then, when she had been no more than a child, he had not known who she was, for she had lived with the servants and played with the servants' children, much like one of them, and her grandmother had known little of the household or its ways. She answered him sharply-- 'I have heard that you were no good friend to your niece, Anne Boleyn, when she was in her troubles.' He swallowed in his throat and gazed impassively at the distant oak tree, nevertheless his knee trembled with fury. And Katharine knew very well that if, more than another, he took pleasure in giving pain with his words, he bore the pain of other's words less well than most men. 'The Queen Anne,' he said, 'was a heretic. No better was she than a Protestant. She battened upon the goods of our Church. Why should I defend her?' 'Uncle,' she said, 'where got you the jewel in your bonnet?' He started a little back at that, and the small veins in his yellow eye-whites grew inflamed with blood. 'Queen----' he brought out between rage and astonishment that she should dare the taunt. 'I think it came from the great chalice of the Abbey of Rising,' she said. 'We are valiant defenders of the Church, who wear its spoils upon our very brows.' It was as if she had thrown down a glove to him and to a great many that were behind him.