The scene was a strange one; the fire was burning low on the hearth, but a bright glow shone from the bed of fiery embers in which the fallen log lay smouldering. The room, a large and gloomy one, was hung with dark tapestries, which increased the somber effect, and it was only imperfectly lighted by the narrow windows at the farther end. In her great chair by the chimney sat the queen clad in black, and her hair entirely concealed by her velvet cap. Around her were grouped her four ladies, Betty Carew alone blooming with youth and beauty in this sad place. Into this little company of women came now the small, strange figure of the man who called himself Zachary Sanders, the most famous wizard in the south of England. He still wore his russet cloak, fastened by a clasp and chain that had been loosened so the mantle hung behind, only kept from slipping off his shoulders by the chain. His jacket and doublet were of russet-colored sarsenet, and he wore no ornament but a curiously wrought silver serpent, which was secured below his collar and hung on his breast. Without his hat he was a far more notable person than with it, for he had a large and finely developed head, the sphere of the brain well arched and full and with no ugly slant of the forehead, and not too protuberant behind, but with a fine line from the nape of the neck to the crown. His owlish eyebrows and pointed gray beard and mustache gave a slightly sinister cast to his features, but his eyes were so remarkable, both for size and brilliancy, that all else sank into insignificance by contrast. He came forward with an ease that indicated a person accustomed to encountering people of all ranks in life, one who was as little likely to be amazed at magnificence as he would be touched by distress. He made a profound obeisance to the queen, and she held out her hand, prompted, perhaps, by the thought that she could not afford to lose a friend, however humble. He knelt on one knee and kissed it with an apparently sincere feeling of homage. “I have heard of you many times, sir,” said Catherine, gravely, “and my women were eager to have some entertainment and instruction. Doubtless they would look curiously into the future, fancying great things in store. I pray you gratify their innocent desires, if you may; for my part, such prognostications are of little comfort. Having encountered so great disasters, I do dread to look beyond the hour; for me such dreams are done.” “Yet it should not be so, your grace,” the wizard answered, regarding the queen earnestly; “your horoscope hath no such evil ending to it.” “You flatter me, good Sanders,” she replied bitterly; “I am no longer young enough to be deceived by such follies. Here is a maid whose fortune should smile like her face,” she added, pointing to Mistress Betty, who stood near her; “your arts should weave a tale of love and happiness for youth and beauty.”