“Ay, curse you!” he said, between his teeth; “you know too much, but so do I, Sir Wizard!” “Only that which would cost you your head long before it harmed a hair of mine,” the little man replied calmly, while he rose and stirred the beverage in the kettle. “What devil’s broth is that?” Henge cried, turning away in disgust; “it stinks like some filthy gruel brewed for death.” “Nay,” said the wizard, smiling, “’tis not poison; thought you to see me boiled like Richard Rouse? When this is thoroughly compounded, the smell of it stealing in a man’s brain will make him forgetful for a space; ’twill be useful to you, and the cost is trifling for the purpose, a hundred guineas.” Henge shuddered. “I have no use for it,” he said hoarsely, “while I have a sword or a knife. Keep your devil messes for your richer clients.” Suddenly there was a deep boom, and the house shook, the windows rattled. The wizard took from the table a wine-glass which stood filled, and raised it in the air. “My Lady Anne, once Queen of England, your health!” he said, and drank it. Henge watched him with a look of dread. “’Tis the signal that she is beheaded,” he said with a ghastly face; “why drink the health of a dead woman?” The little man grinned. “Why not?” he asked. “I may the sooner conjure her to speak to thee.” “The fiend take thy conjuring and thy visions!” exclaimed Henge, uneasily; “keep them to frighten petticoats.” Sanders chuckled maliciously. “You have a great scorn of petticoats since a woman rapped your pate,” he said. “Curse you!” cried Sir Barton; “because you have me in your power, would you insult me? Did you send for me to-day for this sole purpose, your amusement?” “Nay,” retorted the wizard, calmly, “you came for your instructions. Yonder lie the packets,--one to carry to our friends in Yorkshire, where, my lord privy seal having so roughly handled the jury, they are ripe for us; the other packet, being on your person, may be found, if need be, ’tis but a bluff.” “A likely errand,” said Henge, bitterly, “when Cromwell’s spies are thick as harvest gnats. Verily, I thank you, Sir Wizard, but I made no such bargain.” Sanders put out his hands with a deprecating gesture. “As you will,” he said grimly; “there are others, and doubtless if your visit to the Lady Mary was known--” Henge sat staring at the packets; in his mind had flashed a scheme so devilish that he was fascinated. For the moment, even the wizard’s covert threats fell on deaf ears; suddenly the possibility of vengeance, on a larger scale than he had dreamed, intoxicated his brain. The scheme was born full grown; he had but to execute it. “I will take the packets,” he said, wetting his dry lips with his tongue; “I did but jest.” The wizard regarded him uneasily; something in the sudden change of manner displeased him, yet he knew the man to be too deeply committed for retreat. “You have a pleasant way of jesting,” he remarked dryly, “a gentle playfulness. What is your haste?”