“For that there is no help, madam,” Betty answered firmly. “I will even tell you the whole truth; my uncle did forbid me to carry any secret missives, or to meddle with these matters, since he bade me remember that the safety of this realm was a greater matter than the sorrows of one woman, albeit she is a queen.” “Is a queen!” cried Catherine, catching at the words; “thine uncle is a worthy man--an honest man. I am still a queen, it seems, despite the universities and Cranmer! Ah, well, something remains, albeit I can be insulted by a little wench like this one.” “I do assure your grace,” Betty said, “that I am heartily sorry. I would gladly do any service for your pleasure, but I owe also much to my uncle; I would not lay his head in danger.” The queen looked at her a moment in silence; something in the sincerity of the young girl’s tone touched her. “Is it, then, so dangerous to serve the Queen of England?” she asked in a strange voice. “Madam, the Act of the Succession,” began Betty; but Catherine cut her short. “Nay,” she said sharply, “speak not of these things; they poison me. Go, wench! I have no need of you--such service is of little pleasure to me.” Angry, yet touched and wounded by the queen’s reproaches, Betty moved to the door, but there she paused long enough to speak once more. “I do beseech your grace to believe me,” she said gently. “I would not harm a hair of your royal head--I do indeed think that you are despitefully used, the deepest sympathy for your wrongs is in my heart.” “I believe you, Mistress Carew,” the queen replied, after a pause, “but those that be not with me are altogether against me. I am weary; I pray you leave me. Though uncrowned, I may claim so much obedience. When you are older, my girl, and broken in health and spirit, I pray no fairer face may steal your husband’s heart. My fate is not so uncommon that it should isolate me; rather, think I, there be many women in England who should weep for me in very sympathy. A man’s heart is like a ship which is ever prone to slip its moorings; look well, mistress, when you have one, that it is stoutly anchored.” Deeply disturbed and unhappy, Betty Carew left the queen’s room, and going into the gallery beyond, walked to and fro. There was something so desolate in Catherine’s situation, and so merciless were her enemies, that few women could have looked upon her with indifference, and Betty’s heart was not so cold as to resist the appeal. She had often wavered in her allegiance to the king’s party since her arrival at Kimbolton, and being young, was far more likely to be led by her sympathies than her reason. Had Catherine possessed in a greater degree the powers of attraction, she might have won the young girl wholly to her wishes; but the unhappy queen was not rich in nature’s gifts and her austerity was repellent, while her proud reserve in some degree concealed the depth of her own suffering.