The poor officer hastened to avail himself of this invitation. Hurriedly collecting his parchments he bowed himself from the presence of his irate Sovereign. At the door, about twelve feet away, however, he turned. “My gracious Liege,” he began, “the casting of the count is right. Upon my honour as a Christian soul I can look your Majesty in the face with truth in my eye----” Now on the table there was a massive inkstand made from the horn of a ram mounted with silver feet. This Henry seized and hurled with all his strength. The aim was good, for the heavy horn struck the wretched scribe upon the nose so that the ink squirted all over his face, and felled him to the floor. “Now there is more in your eye than truth,” shouted the King. “Be off, ere the stool follows the inkpot.” Two ladies who stood by the fire talking together and taking no heed, for to such rude scenes they seemed to be accustomed, looked up and laughed a little, then went on talking, while Cromwell smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Then in the midst of the silence which followed Thomas Bolle, who had been watching open-mouthed, ejaculated in his great voice-- “A bull’s eye! A noble bull! Myself cannot throw straighter.” “Silence, fool,” hissed Emlyn. “Who spoke?” asked the king, looking towards them sharply. “Please, my Liege, it was I, Thomas Bolle.” “Thomas Bolle! Can you sling a stone, Thomas Bolle, whoever you may be?” “Aye, Sire, but not better than you, I think. That was a gallant shot.” “Thomas Bolle, you are right. Seeing the hurry and the unhandiness of the missile, it was excellent. Let the knave stand up again and I’ll bet you a gold noble to a brass nail that you’ll not do as well within an inch. Why, the fellow’s gone! Will you try on my Lord Cromwell? Nay, this is no time for fooling. What’s your business, Thomas Bolle, and who are those women with you?” Now Cromwell stepped forward, and with cringing gestures began to explain something to the King in a low voice. Meanwhile, the two ladies became suddenly interested in Cicely, and one of them, a pale but pretty woman, splendidly dressed, stepped forward to her, saying-- “Are you the Lady Harflete of whom we have heard, she who was to have been burnt as a witch? Yes? And is that your child? Oh! what a beautiful child. A boy, I’ll swear. Come to me, sweet, and in after years you can tell that a queen has nursed you,” and she stretched out her arms. As good fortune would have it the child was awake, and attracted by the Queen’s pleasant voice, or perhaps by the necklace of bright gems that she wore, he held out his little hands towards her and went quite contentedly to her breast. Jane Seymour, for it was she, began to fondle him with delight, then, followed by her lady, ran to the King, saying-- “See, Harry, see what a beautiful boy, and how he loves me. God send us such a son as this!” The King glanced at the child, then answered--