“To my lord privy seal,” he answered, glancing with some compassion at the prisoner’s indignant face; “belike he has some questions to ask. But come, here I linger talking like a featherpate, and Cromwell waits. I would have left you your sword, my lord, but that you were so thirsty for blood.” “I will go quietly,” Raby said, in great perplexity and wrath; “it was foolish to fly at thy throat for nothing, but it makes my blood boil.” “For that I do not blame thee,” the officer replied, “though it doth usually make a man’s blood run cold.” “You speak for a guilty man,” said Raby, sharply; “no honest man would shiver at an insult.” There were but few more words exchanged, the little company closed up about the prisoner, and the walk through the streets was a rapid one. Many stared, and some insulting jests were made. It was no uncommon sight; disloyalty was rife enough to make the arrest of a nobleman a matter of usual occurrence. They passed some of the gay young gentlemen of the court, who looked aside on seeing their acquaintance in such company. He was taken to Cromwell’s house, and waited but a little while at the door before he was brought before him. Cromwell was in his private room sitting at a table by the window, and a large mass of papers lay before him. It was his custom to apply himself closely to business, and much of it was transacted by his own hand. Here was a man who held the threads of many conspiracies, whose falcon eye was peering into every secret lurking-place from Land’s End to the Tweed, whose relentless grip closed on the traitor like a vise. His back was to the light where he sat, so that his strong face was in the shadow, but his penetrating eyes were bent on Raby at his entrance with a not unkindly look. “Master Raby, I had it in my mind to send you some advertisement of my regret at your father’s death,” he said gravely, “when this charge was lodged against you, to my infinite surprise.” “Sir, I am ignorant of the cause of my arrest,” Raby replied, “nor can I imagine what accusation has been made against me.” “You are charged with high treason,” Cromwell said, turning over some papers before him, “having conspired with certain persons against the safety of the realm, and the life of the king’s grace.” The expression of amazement deepened on the prisoner’s face. “My lord,” he said, “I am dumbfounded; I have been absent more than two months in Sussex, busy with the settlement of my father’s estate, which, as I think you know, was much in need of my administration. As for consorting with conspirators--you, who have known me from my boyhood, should know the folly of the charge. I thought my loyalty to the king’s highness was established by faithful service. This accusation is but the baseless falsehood of mine enemies.”