Summer passed; Michaelmas came and went; all England waited in hope and fear for news of the birth of an heir to the throne, and on the twelfth of October, the vigil of Saint Edward’s day, the bells rang out in wild peals of joy, the bonfires blazed from Land’s End to the Tweed, the guns were fired. A prince was born; the hope of England lived. CHAPTER XXVI A PRINCE’S BAPTISM IT was the hour appointed for the prince’s baptism. It was night at Hampton Court; the king’s equerries ran to and fro, the ladies of the queen were crowding the anterooms of the royal chamber. They had made elaborate toilets for the great occasion, and farthingales of satin and brocade spread wide on every hand; and more than one slender waist was girdled with costly pearls, while the great headdresses loomed up above fair faces, flushed and agitated with the haste and the unusual presence of the king; for Henry sat beside the state couch on which lay the young mother of England’s future king. Pages quarrelled over comfits on the staircases; gentlemen-in-waiting ran against each other in their eagerness to excel in service at that hour; the doctors and nurses forgot the queen in their zeal for the prince. The heralds, armed with silver trumpets, stood waiting to proclaim the glad event; the sponsors were come, laden with gifts, the Archbishop Cranmer, the Princess Mary, the Duke of Norfolk--a strange company. My lord of Canterbury’s spoons and Mary Tudor’s golden cup stood side by side; the day was not yet ripe when she would sign the warrant to send the archbishop to the flames of martyrdom. Into this scene of confusion came my Lady Crabtree and Mistress Betty Carew. It was an hour when all guests were welcome, and the opportunity to reach the royal presence was too valuable to be lost. Betty came with a secret hope; she did not speak of it even to her companion, but it was in her heart. She had arrayed herself with more than usual care, and she looked like a stately white rose as she stood in the chapel waiting for the entrance of the great procession. Her gown was of pure white brocade, and on her head was the five-pointed hood of white velvet, such as Anne Boleyn had often worn; around her throat was a single string of pearls. Months of anxiety had stolen the color from her cheeks, but her brown eyes were larger and more lustrous, and there was a purpose, a resolution in her face which made it beautiful in its intense animation. Old Madam, in a singularly ugly garment of copper-colored satin with a marvellous headdress of black velvet, made a strange foil for the beauty, and many a curious glance was cast in their direction as they stood aside, watching, but taking no part in the festivities.