“To me the noblest and the richest in the kingdom,” he exclaimed. She looked at him with radiant eyes. “Sir,” she said roguishly, “my uncle calleth thee!” CHAPTER XXI A MESSENGER FROM LONDON IN the strange house upon the Thames, the wizard entertained a guest in a small, dark room upon the lower floor. There was a low chimney in the corner, and on the hearth some logs were burning; over it was swung a kettle, the steam issuing from its iron lips proclaiming, by its unsavory odor, some tea of herbs. On the table in the center of the room were two sealed packets, one large, the other small, and near this table sat the wizard and his friend, Sir Barton Henge. The outer shutters being closed, there was no light in the place except the red glare of the fire which flickered on the faces of these two, and cast their shadows magnified upon the wall behind. A strange couple, strangely fitted for mischief. “Anne Boleyn is sentenced,” Henge said moodily; “my lord of Northumberland was carried fainting from the court.” “Let the drab die!” retorted the wizard, with indifference; “as for Percy, he is a fool. In spite of all, he is firm for the king and Cromwell; there are others whom we will get. Yet this woman’s death will go far to heal the differences between this realm and Rome; the pope but fears the emperor, and the emperor’s aunt is now avenged. Happily, however, the visitation of the monasteries sets ill on the stomachs of the common folk.” “How like a spider you are!” said Henge, watching him. “Sitting here, you weave and weave until one fly and then another is caught in the meshes of your web, and then you gloat over the victim’s struggles.” “As you will gloat,” remarked the astrologer, “when your victim is caught in the snare that you are setting.” His dark companion started and looked at him uneasily. Even in his bold heart there lurked a secret dread of this dwarfish creature’s power; the shining eyes, the keen, fox-like face were full of cunning, wit, relentless purpose, and Henge knew it. “What hints are these?” he said roughly. “I am not a man to plot as you do; I am no schemer, but an open foe.” The wizard laughed unpleasantly, lifting his brows with a look of incredulity. “An open foe?” he remarked placidly; “so, so, ’twas open in the park that morning, but wherefore the masks, Sir Barton?” Henge sprang up with a curse. “You spying devil!” he cried; “how came you there?” At this the little man laughed long and loud, rocking to and fro on his stool, tears of merriment gathering in his eyes, while his fellow conspirator stood staring at him like a wild beast at bay. “I was not there,” he said at last, wiping his eyes, but shaking still with laughter,--“I was not there, or I might have engaged my Lady Crabtree; an equal match we would have made. Sit down, my son, ’tis no time for such quarrels; I know too much, too much!” Henge stared at him, his hand fondly fingering his sword.