Betty Carew could not eat, she was far too anxious for the fate of the man she loved, and she walked to and fro, wrapped in her own thoughts and alone, having dismissed the woman. Lord Raby had been before the Council, but doubtless, by this time, was back in the Tower. How had it fared with him? she wondered. Had his innocence shone out clear as noonday, or had he been entrapped by the skilful cross-questioning and false accusations of his enemies? Believing in him with all her heart, she was yet fully conscious of the pitfalls in these secret proceedings, and she trembled for him. It was in her nature to love him more dearly in the hour of his evil fortune; she possessed that loyalty which is unshaken by the sharpest trials, and her greatest sorrow now was her own inability to fight his battles for him. Her persistence had won the king’s attention to his case, had roused even her uncle from his angry apathy, had stirred old Madam to energetic action; but now, at the supreme moment, being a woman, she was powerless to help him. She longed for Sir William’s summons, which would mean that something material had been accomplished, and in her eagerness, she ran twenty times to the window and looked down into the street; a light burned in the court, and this showed her that there was no one at the door. The time dragged wearily; Lady Crabtree came not, and there seemed little hope of any decisive action that night. Weary of her restless walk, she sat down by the fire, which was beginning to burn low, and waited. Every sound in the house, every step in the hall made her start with impatience; yet she scarcely knew what she expected. Nature has strong claims upon the young and healthy; no matter how great the anxiety, sleep comes at last, stealing over the senses, pressing down the lids, stilling the eager heart-beats. Betty had been under an almost continuous strain, and the warmth of the fire relaxed her nerves, comforted her physical weariness; her head drooped on her hand, her eyes closed, her breathing became soft and regular, in a few moments she would have drifted into unconsciousness. But suddenly there was a stir below, the sound of feet on the stairs, and Lady Crabtree’s woman came hurrying in. Betty started up at once, alert and eager. “’Tis a message from my uncle!” she exclaimed; “from Sir William Carew?” “Two men with a litter below, mistress,” the woman replied, “and a message from Sir William that you come at once to his lodgings.” Betty’s fingers trembled with eagerness as she fastened her cloak with the attendant’s aid. Something had happened, something was known; she could not brook a moment’s delay. “Shall I go with you, Mistress Betty?” the tirewoman asked. “Nay; you must stay for Lady Crabtree,” Betty replied; “and tell her where I am. It does not matter; I can go alone with my uncle’s servants.”