WHEN Sir William’s barge stopped at the water-stairs at Greenwich Palace, Master Raby came down to meet Mistress Betty and her uncle. It was an accident, yet his pleasure at the encounter was so evident that Carew smiled; the beauty of that face was doing mischief in more than one case, he thought, and was amused to note that here his high-tempered niece showed only gentle courtesy. “Sets the wind in that quarter?” Sir William said to himself; “then, verily, Henge is like to have a very pretty quarrel on his hands, for here is a young sprig who can handle a sword as well as he.” Meanwhile, unconscious of the thoughts running through Carew’s brain, Mistress Betty and her escort walked a little in advance, engaged in conversation. Half-way to the palace gates, some acquaintances stayed Sir William’s progress, and the two, coming alone to the entrance, stood waiting for him. They were undisturbed; the king was at Whitehall, and but few loungers showed themselves about the palace. In spite of his pleasant greeting, there was some constraint in Raby’s manner, and now that the opportunity presented itself, he turned abruptly to his companion, a flush mounting to his face as he addressed her. “Mistress Carew,” he said, with some hesitation, “’tis said that you are plighted to Sir Barton Henge.” Betty started, her face flushing more deeply than his. “Who tells these tales?” she exclaimed. “They are but idle tales, then?” he asked quickly. “I could scarce credit them, knowing that you knew him not that night at the inn.” She looked at him with perplexity in her eyes. What could she do, she thought, and how defend herself against her enemy? Truth alone could help her, even while it wounded her, and she was brave enough to see it. “Master Raby,” she said, with a soft falter in her voice that her uncle would not have recognized, “there is a contract, made when I was a baby; not even my uncle knew of it. Upon the strength of that, Sir Barton must have set these rumors afloat; there is naught else.” Her companion’s face fell at her words. “A contract?” he said slowly; “and Sir William wishes it fulfilled, doubtless, and you, Mistress Carew?” “Sir, I will never wed him,” she said firmly, holding her head proudly. There was a joyful flash in Raby’s eyes which brought a softer blush to Betty’s cheek. “’Twould be a sacrifice to make angels weep!” he said in a low tone, his radiant glance making her eyes seek the ground; “the man is a knave to claim it against your will.” “’Tis prophesied that I will wed a man so scarred,” she said, in a troubled voice, for superstition had stirred in her heart ever since she first saw Sir Barton’s brow. Simon Raby laughed as he took her hand, which offered but a poor resistance. “Mistress Carew,” he whispered, “may not another man be so scarred? Truly, there are many who would bear a greater cut for thy sake.” A roguish smile curved Betty’s lips, but she averted her face.