“And so would I, if I had been born a Spaniard and so suffered at the hands of the English,” she declared; “it was only human.” At this Master Raby laughed outright. The dead queen’s champion was irresistible in her youth and beauty and that fearlessness which was her birthright. He drew her out, delighted at the frankness and spirit of her speech; he was a courtier, sated, too, with the follies and the pleasures of that gilded life, a much admired gallant, a favorite with the ladies of Queen Anne, but here was a fresh experience and he found it irresistible. Meanwhile, Mistress Betty, whose nature was cast in a sharper outline, who saw things with the uncompromising eyes of youth, scarcely detected his enjoyment of the little dialogue. “Truly, it would be dangerous to offend you, Mistress Carew,” he said, still laughing softly; “but take you no thought of that other aspect of the affair? The peril to the state, the sharp necessity of loyalty when the kingdom is in peril, and the Bishop of Rome would bring us all to disaster if he could. Has he not caused his bulls to be nailed up on every church door in Flanders, and held us up as a legitimate prey for the faithful? Was it not wrong for this princess who had been a queen of England to desire the desolation of this realm?” Betty stood a moment thinking, biting her lip and pressing her hands together. After a moment she looked up into Master Raby’s amused eyes, and her cheeks burned. “I believe that I should have done worse,” she cried, “if any one had dared to so insult me.” “Happily, Mistress Carew, no man would ever attempt it,” said her companion, softly; “your face is too fair to be so soon forgotten. This poor lady was older than the king and never handsome, nor did his grace ever love her.” “More shame to him!” said Betty, sharply; “she was his wife.” Master Raby laughed again. “Ah, Mistress Carew,” he said, “you must talk with my lord of Canterbury! Must a man love a woman because she is his wife?” Betty gave him a swift, sidelong glance. “Sir,” she said demurely, “I know nothing of a man’s heart, but I have heard that it is like a mirror and reflects every face that looks in it, only that, unlike a mirror, you may never break it.” “You are young to be so cruel,” her companion cried, delighted, “and verily, mistress, you will find many hearts do break before you make one blest.” “You are a courtier, Master Raby,” she replied, “and have a readier wit than mine, but you can never make me admire the woman who broke this good queen’s heart.” “Nay,” he answered softly, “it is you, fair Mistress Betty, who will make me do your bidding, not I you.” At this, she blushed the color of a fresh June rose, being as yet unused to fine speeches, and Master Raby stood looking at her, thinking her fairer than any beauty of the court, when Sir William Carew came up and cut the conversation short.