Barely a minute had elapsed whilst these quick thoughts and fears went wildly coursing through her mind. There was no time to tell him everything now. The voices came from the next room, within the next few seconds probably the great door would be open to admit a group of people: the Duchess of Lincoln and the ladies mayhap, or the Queen on her way to chapel. And His Grace of Wessex looked terribly determined. "No! no! no!--not just this moment, sweet Grace," she entreated, "by your love! not _just_ this moment. . . . The Queen would be so angry . . . oh! not _just_ now!" She looked so genuinely disturbed, and so tenderly appealing, that he could not help but obey. "But you cannot send me away like this," he urged. "Another word, sweet saint. . . . Faith! I could not live without another kiss. . . ." "No, no, no, I entreat Your Grace . . . not to-night," she protested feebly. He thought, however, that he detected a sign of yielding in her voice, although she was already beginning to mount the steps ready for flight. "Just one tiny word," he whispered hurriedly: "when the Queen has passed through, linger up there for one brief minute only. I'll wait in there!" And he pointed to a small door close behind him, which led to an inner closet at right angles with the gallery. Before she had time to protest--nay! perhaps she had no wish to refuse--he had disappeared behind its heavy panels, quickly calling to his dog to follow him. But in that one moment's hesitation, those few brief and delicious words hastily exchanged, she had lost her opportunity for escape. The next instant the door at the further end of the room was thrown open, and the Queen entered followed by some of her ladies. She was accompanied by the Duchess of Lincoln, and His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno was on her left. As chance or ill-luck would have it, the first sight which greeted Her Majesty's eyes was the figure of Lady Ursula, midway up the steps which led to the gallery, some mysterious imp of mischief having contrived that the light from the wax tapers should unaccountably and very vividly fall upon the white-clad form of the young girl. An exclamation of stern reproval from Her Grace of Lincoln brought Ursula to a standstill. Flight now was no longer possible; she could but trust in her guardian angel, or in any of those protective genii who have in their keeping the special care of lovers in distress, and who happened to be hovering nigh. It was not seemly to be half-way up a flight of stairs when Her Majesty was standing on the floor below. Ursula, with her cheeks aflame with vexation, slowly descended, whilst encountering as boldly as she could the artillery fire of half a dozen pairs of eyes fixed steadily upon her. Mary Tudor looked coldly severe, Her Grace of Lincoln horror-struck, His Eminence ironical, and the ladies vastly amused. "Ah, child!" said Her Majesty, in her iciest tone of voice, "all alone, and in this part of the Palace?"