In a window recess of the hall stood Mistress Carew, cloaked and muffled for a journey, and at her side was Master Raby. The two stood looking down into the crowded court and talking in low tones. She was to ride with her uncle to Greenwich upon some errand,--what she knew not, but she had much curiosity to learn, nursing a hope that she was to have a glimpse of the court. However, she kept her own counsel, and listened with a serious face to the talk of her companion. “This matter has been a grief to the king’s grace,” he said, speaking too low for any ears but those of his fair auditor; “I would not have believed that he could be so moved thereat. ’Tis said that when he read her last letter, he wept and lamented her.” “Do men always weep so late?” asked Mistress Betty, coldly, her bright eyes turning scornfully upon the speaker; “forsooth, sir, I would rather be treated with more kindness while I lived than so lamented in death.” Master Raby was taken by surprise. The sudden sharpness of her tone, her expressive glance, came after a passive attitude of attention. “And so would I,” he said heartily; “yet surely, mistress, a late repentance is better than none.” “I would have none of it,” retorted his companion, with disdain; “had I been treated like this queen, I would never have written so loving a letter to the king, no, not I! Poor lady! she was too meek, or, perhaps, too good a Christian. A little more spirit would have made him mend his ways in time. I do think that never was a woman who deserved more pity.” “There are some who would call your speech treasonable, Mistress Carew,” Raby said, but his eyes were full of amusement as he looked at the flushed, angry face before him; “speak not too warmly in this lady’s cause before other witnesses, I pray you.” “Sir, she was hardly used,” declared Betty, stoutly; “I would say so if you were the king’s highness.” “And if you said it with that tone and look, I do wager he would pardon you,” exclaimed the other, smiling; “indeed, I believe the king has known some hours of regret. At least, he has ordered the court into deep mourning; but the queen--” Raby shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “Queen Anne Boleyn? What of her?” asked the young girl, a certain scorn in her fresh voice. “Queen Anne and all her ladies are wearing yellow,” Raby said, “and a curious spectacle it is. They do say she has remarked that she only regretted that the Lady Catherine made so good an end.” “’Tis a shame,” cried Betty; “she is but a harlequin to dress so. This queen was a good woman, and so deserves all respect.” “It is reported that she plotted with the Spaniards against this realm,” remarked her companion, watching her face. Mistress Betty flushed rose-red; the thought of the hidden packet came to her mind. This charge she could neither parry nor deny, but her pity for the dead woman outlived her horror of treasonable practices. She lifted her head haughtily.