“I suppose, Master Smith,” he said, pointing to Bolle, who was wiping his hands clean with the rushes from the floor, “this is the man that you told me played the devil yonder at Blossholme. Well, he can play the fool also. In another minute there would have been a tumult and you would have lost your chance of seeing his Grace, for months perhaps, since he has determined to ride from London to-morrow morning northwards, though it is true he may change his mind ere then. This rebellion troubles him much, and were it not for the loan you promise, when loans are needed, small hope would you have had of audience. Now come quickly and be careful that you do not cross the King’s temper, for it is tetchy to-day. Indeed, had it not been for the Queen, who is with him and minded to see this Lady Harflete, that they would have burnt as a witch, you must have waited till a more convenient season which may never come. Stay, what is in that great sack you carry, Bolle?” “The devil’s livery, may it please your Lordship.” “The devil’s livery, many wear that in London. Still, bring the gear, it may make his Grace laugh, and if so I’ll give you a gold piece, who have had enough of oaths and scoldings, aye,” he added, with a sour grin, “and of blows too. Now follow me into the Presence, and speak only when you are spoken to, nor dare to answer if he rates you.” They went from the room down a passage and through another door, where the guards on duty looked suspiciously at Bolle and his sack, but at a word from Cromwell let them through into a large room in which a fire burned upon the hearth. At the end of this room stood a huge, proud-looking man with a flat and cruel face, broad as an ox’s skull, as Thomas Bolle said afterwards, who was dressed in some rich, sombre stuff and wore a velvet cap upon his head. He held a parchment in his hand, and before him on the other side of an oak table sat an officer of state in a black robe, who wrote upon another parchment, whereof there were many scattered about on the table and the floor. “Knave,” shouted the King, for they guessed that it was he, “you have cast up these figures wrong. Oh, that it should be my lot to be served by none but fools!” “Pardon, your Grace,” said the secretary in a trembling voice, “thrice have I checked them.” “Would you gainsay me, you lying lawyer,” bellowed the King again. “I tell you they must be wrong, since otherwise the sum is short by £1100 of that which I was promised. Where are the £1100? You must have stolen them, thief.” “I steal, oh, your Grace, I steal!” “Aye, why not, since your betters do. Only you are clumsy, you lack skill. Ask my Lord Cromwell there to give you lessons. He learned under the best of masters, and is a merchant by trade to boot. Oh, get you gone and take your scribblings with you.”