“My Lord Raby,” he said coldly, “that is a child’s tale, but not for the ears of men. My papers were innocent of any offence to king or council; they pertained entirely to affairs in Devon, and were writ at Cromwell’s request.” “Sir,” replied the prisoner, sternly, “it hath been a mystery to me, and, albeit I would not have spoken of it, for fear of offence to you, now I will even speak my mind. The packet that you gave me was cherished with care, and when I was apprehended, was yet in the breast of my doublet. My lord privy seal had received me kindly, and used me with the justice I had a right to expect. Being willing to serve you, even in my own misfortune, I handed your packet to him. Scarce had he opened it before his face changed, and after reading half its contents, he sent me to the Tower. Had I been minded to think ill of you, Sir William, surely I had cause enough, but I strove to judge the matter with charity. In return, you cast suspicion on my motives and charge me with falsehood in regard to this same evil packet. Sir, it tries my patience to its limit.” “’Tis sheer nonsense to lay the matter to my papers,” retorted Carew, irritably; “know I not what was writ there? Am I a fool? If all your conduct was as innocent, there is little doubt you would be a freeman.” “I am a prisoner,” Raby replied proudly, “and mayhap it pleasures you to cast aspersions on a man who may not defend himself, but ’tis unworthy of you.” At this, Betty interfered. “I pray you both to forbear,” she said, looking from one face to the other imploringly; “surely there is some terrible mistake, and do not make it worse by a quarrel.” Raby, seeing her distress, pressed her hand affectionately. “Dear heart,” he said, “I would not quarrel with thy uncle, but no man can endure such insinuations with patience. I am innocent, and I have no such meek spirit that I love to be suspected by my friends.” “I am an old man, my lord,” said Carew, impatiently, “and I am not over-smooth-tongued; I have no wish to offend your nice feelings, but I see a plain matter and you give me a foolish excuse. My packet! Why, Lord Raby, I would have sent this child Betty with it and taken no thought.” “Sir, I never accused you of malice,” Simon replied more calmly, “but I had the packet of you, I gave it to Cromwell, and I am here.” “Tush!” exclaimed Sir William, testily, “am I a fool? Do I look a dullard? Can you think to pass this dream off on a sane man? Raby, it was not my packet!” “Sir!” exclaimed the younger man, springing to his feet, “do you accuse me of falsehood?” Mistress Betty rose and ran to her uncle, who was standing, his strong face working with anger.