“I remember,” she said, in conclusion, “that he made this prophecy to Queen Catherine at Kimbolton, or something very like it; and when her maids would have upbraided this queen, she said that they would soon have cause to pity her and lament her case.” “Some estrangement there is between the king’s grace and Queen Anne,” Raby answered in a low tone; “but I take it for a lovers’ quarrel, and no more. As for this vision, that wizard should be jailed for it. What need had he to so torment the unhappy lady? Doubtless he is of the party favoring the Lady Mary and would right gladly drive the queen to madness. Conspiracy is everywhere, and the death of Catherine has but discouraged it for a moment; the papists are openly discontent, and there is a great faction among the nobility, who hate my lord privy seal. We may be sure that this wizard is among the plotters, and had I any doubt of it, ’twould be removed by the appearance there of Henge, who, I believe, is up to the elbows in these treasons, albeit he hath yet the ear of Cromwell.” A wave of color swept over Betty’s face at the mention of the obnoxious name. “Master Raby,” she said, with embarrassment in her tone, “I have to thank you for coming to my aid this night, but I was most unhappy to provoke a quarrel between you and that man, who is unworthy of your notice.” “And did you dream that I would stand by to see you annoyed by the rogue?” he answered lightly; “I would sooner break his neck.” “And I would not grieve were it broken, sir,” she said, “though I would not rejoice to cause the death of any man, however vile. Master Raby, I pray you, let the matter go no further; there is no need for you to accept a challenge from a rogue.” Willing to conceal the true state of affairs, Raby smiled. “We will not speak of that which pains you, Mistress Carew,” he said cheerfully. “A flogging at Saint Paul’s Cross would better serve the knave than to meet a gentleman, albeit Henge is of noble blood.” Mistress Betty gave him a searching glance. Accustomed to the clash of swords and to many a wild scene in Devon, she had but few feminine fears, yet her heart throbbed at the thought of a sword-thrust in the breast of this brave gentleman. “You are going to fight him,” she said in a low voice, “and for me. Alas! I was both foolish and wicked to provoke the quarrel; sir, I pray you to forbear.” Their eyes met, and she saw a light shining in Raby’s that a duller woman could have read. A sweet confusion made her stand blushing like a timid child. “And if I draw not my sword in your quarrel, for whom shall I draw it?” he said in a softer tone. “Fear not, Mistress Carew, the rogue shall have a just chastisement; ’tis not worthy of a thought of yours, yet I rejoice to think that what I do is not a matter of indifference to you.”