Meanwhile the queen was in her own apartments. Although deeply disturbed by the king’s anger and abrupt departure, she bore herself with composure, talking quietly with her women, speaking not at all of the arrest of her brother. Her maids flocked about her startled, dismayed, and each suspicious of the other’s fidelity, except the few who were close to the person of the queen. Never was a May Day so full of trouble since the Ill May Day when the poor apprentices of London rose in Queen Catherine’s time to be butchered by the Duke of Norfolk. Night came at last, but sleep visited but few in the palace, and the morning found many haggard faces about the queen. Yet the suspense continued; the daily life at Greenwich moved on as usual, men and women tried to smile and made ghastly jests. The king came not again, and noonday brought no tidings. Dinner was spread in the royal apartments, and Anne sat down, attended by her maids of honor and the servants of her own household. The customary greeting from the king, “Much good may it do you,” came not, and the queen’s face paled as she glanced at the sorrowful women about her. More than one had tearful eyes, and all failed to respond to her attempted pleasantry. “Mary,” she said, turning to Mistress Wyatt, “what ails thee? One would think that a death’s head grinned upon the board. ’Tis a dull hour and my maids are red-eyed; truly, it seems that they might make some jest to entertain the queen.” “Oh, madam!” exclaimed Mary Wyatt, bursting into tears, “I cannot--I am ill.” “Ill?” repeated the queen, sadly; “nay, my girl, not ill, but fearful. I knew not that thy blood was so weak. When Anne Boleyn sees danger approaching, her heart beats with a bolder pulse; she feels that she is sprung of a warlike race which is not so ill a match for the Tudors. Come, come, Mary, dry thy tears; the May sun is shining; it is almost as fair a day as that first of June on which I made my progress through London.” “I pray that it may shine on you with greater blessing, madam,” replied Mistress Wyatt, drying her eyes. The queen looked down the long table; at the end one of her old servants stood weeping; on either hand were pale faces, even Betty Carew had lost her splendid coloring. “Mistress Carew,” said Anne, “why is your face so long? I do not think you love me, yet your cheek is wan. Is my case, then, like the queen’s at Kimbolton?” There was a rustle, a stir of amazement, but the words were spoken. “Madam,” said Betty, in a low voice, “between the ill and suffering lady who died yonder and your grace’s youth and health there can be no comparison.” “My Lady Crabtree takes you to Deptford,” said Anne, quietly; “’tis well. I would not bring disaster upon one so young, and who has no cause to love me.” “I pray your grace to let me remain,” Betty cried, her generous spirit stirred; “I would not leave you in the hour of trouble.”