“Tell your master,” she said to the usher, “that the queen was so wonderfully entertained that she forgot her usual obedience to his orders and craves his pardon. Master Sanders, I thank you for your diverting discourse,” she added to the astrologer. “I am so poor I may not even reward my entertainment; but continue, sir, to read in the stars the salvation of this realm, and so find your reward.” The wizard made his obeisance and turned to withdraw; as he did so, a tiny packet fell from under his cloak, and Mistress Betty noted that Patience set her foot upon it, making no effort to restore it to its owner. When he reached the door, Sanders turned for the last time toward the queen, and making a strange sign with his hands, bowed and withdrew. CHAPTER VII MISTRESS CAREW’S ALLEGIANCE IT was dusk; the shadows were folding thickly about the gloomy walls of Kimbolton. In the queen’s drawing-room Betty Carew sat alone, a solitary taper burning on the table beside her, while she mechanically turned the leaves of the illuminated missal, her thoughts being far away. The queen had been ill for some days; she was able to sit up, but kept her own chamber. Below, in the apartments of Bedingfield, were two gentlemen from the privy council, and with them, as Betty knew, the Marquis of Exeter. Something had happened; what, the young girl scarcely divined. The three visitors had arrived almost at daybreak, and at noon there had been a stormy interview in Catherine’s room, from which Mistress Carew was excluded. After it was over, the queen was in more distress than Betty had ever seen her; she even wept, and called passionately for her daughter,--an unusual outbreak, followed by a season of exhaustion. She was reported now to be asleep, her three favorite attendants watching her, while the youngest of all sat like an outcast and a spy in the outer room. There had been much secret dealing of late, Betty knew, and she felt that they were careful to shut her out, ever suspicious of her motives. That day, she had heard Exeter remonstrate with Bedingfield on the mean state of the household and on the queen’s poor attendance; and Sir Edmund replied that he must even obey his orders, and that as for state, he had no money, and the council allowed none to support the princess dowager. “Poor lady!” Exeter said, “there is little need of all this watch and ward; if I be not mistaken, there cometh soon a guest which no bars shall keep out and no privy council examine.” “Ay, so it looks,” Bedingfield replied, “and yet I know not; she hath been ailing long, but seems to fight her malady as steadfastly as she did the divorce.” “A gallant heart,” my lord of Exeter replied, “but she will die. Her eye looks it and her dull and yellowish hue betrays it. ’Tis no place here either to stir the laggard blood in her veins; she is a Spaniard, and this sharp weather suits her as little as our northern temperaments. The end of a great sorrow draweth nigh.”