Raby walked alone in the lofty gallery, pacing to and fro, with his arms folded on his breast and his head bent in thought. He came of a brave race, and showed it in his gallant bearing and the fine expression of his face. Trained from boyhood for a soldier, as every English boy was in those days, he had seen service both in France and Ireland, and was esteemed a courageous and keen-witted officer, if somewhat reckless. Reared in a worldly school, he had led a gay and careless life; but there were too fine elements of manhood in him to be choked by the evil that in many natures, under such influences, shoots up more rapidly than the good. None of his family were living except his father, and death was soon to sever that last tie. Among all the beauties of the court who had won his fancy and even touched his heart, none had ever seemed so charming as the penniless orphan whom fate had made an attendant upon Queen Anne. His admiration kindled by the beauty of Betty’s face had swiftly grown into the proportions of a far deeper passion than he had ever known, and his generous nature, too, was touched by the peculiar hardships of her situation. For forgetting her lack of dower he deserved no great credit, since a man like Barton Henge could also be completely dazzled by the young girl’s personal loveliness. As Raby walked there in the gallery, he gave no thought to his appointment with Henge; a duel was a matter of too common occurrence in his adventurous life to be of any particular moment. He was an expert swordsman, and his contempt for his adversary’s character was so great that he underrated his skill and regarded him as no very dangerous foe. After the queen’s return, her shrieks were audible even in the place where Raby walked; but they were hushed at last, and in the stillness he heard the great clock of the palace striking twelve. He went to a casement, and throwing it open, looked out upon the night. The moon was setting and a few soft clouds drifted above it; below, the park was full of black shadows, and in the distance the hounds of the royal pack bayed in a melancholy monotone. The strange adventures of the evening might well have stirred hardier nerves, and Raby shared the superstitions of the times. The weird black and white outlines of the scene oppressed him; it seemed to him that a calamity hung over the palace, and the queen’s wild cries still rang in his ears. He closed the casement sharply and turned just as the door opened, and Mistress Carew came in alone. A glance at her pale face told him that something unusually painful had occurred. “How fares the queen?” he asked eagerly. “She sleeps at last,” Betty replied; “but she has been in a grievous state, crying and laughing like a mad woman, and would take no comfort. She told her fearful vision to Mistress Wyatt, and ’tis no wonder that she is so distressed;” and with an awed face and agitated voice she went on to tell Raby of the mirror and its dark revelations.