“Maria,” she said, “mark you this maid? She is likely to go to court; will she not outshine some stars at Windsor?” Lady Willoughby glanced in surprise from the queen’s face to Betty’s, and doubtless thinking her royal mistress wandering in mind, replied gently that the maiden was fair enough surely to shine in any court. “Hark you, my girl,” Catherine said to Betty, a rigid sternness in her face, “I die the Queen of England, the true and lawful wife of the king’s grace. Forget it not.” She paused, and there was no response. Betty Carew, standing beside her with tears in her eyes, had no words to answer her, and, like Lady Willoughby, believed that her mind wandered. “Kneel down,” said the queen, solemnly; and both Betty and Donna Maria mechanically obeyed. The room was still, a dim light crept in at the windows, the tapers flared behind the dark canopy of the bed. The attendants stood back in the shadows. Catherine raised herself a little on her pillows and lifted her hands, clasping them before her; her eyes shone with a strange luster in the deadly whiteness of her face. “His holiness the pope,” she said in a clear voice, “hath declared my marriage valid. I am the wife of Henry, King of England. I do call upon you all to witness; this maid also, who is not of us,--I die the queen! And I do solemnly charge you, at the peril of your souls, to bear in mind that the king has one true and legitimate daughter, the Lady Mary, Princess Royal of England and heiress to the throne.” She remained a moment with her hands lifted, her face growing more rigid. There was the sound of suppressed sobbing in the room. The queen’s arms fell heavily and she sank back in a deathlike swoon. CHAPTER VIII THE KING’S MESSENGERS