At the moment Jane was crossing the railed plank leading to her galley, a small wherry, rowed by a young man of slight sinewy frame, clad in a doublet of coarse brown serge, and wearing a flat felt cap, on which a white cross was stitched, shot with marvellous rapidity from out the foremost line of boats, and, in spite of all opposition, passed between the state barges, and drew up at her feet. Before the daring intruder could be removed, an old woman, seated in the stern of the boat, arose and extended her arms towards Jane. She was dressed in mean attire, with her grey locks gathered beneath an ancient three-cornered coif; but her physiognomy was striking, and her manner seemed far above her lowly condition. Fixing an imploring glance on the queen, she cried—“A boon! a boon!” “It is granted,” replied Jane, in a kind tone, and pausing. “What would you?” “Preserve you,” rejoined the old woman. “Go not to the Tower.” “And wherefore not, good dame?” inquired the queen. “Ask me not,” returned the old woman,—her figure dilating, her eye kindling, and her gesture becoming almost that of command, as she spoke,—“Ask me not; but take my warning. Again, I say—Go not to the Tower. Danger lurks therein,—danger to you—your husband—and to all you hold dear. Return, while it is yet time; return to the retirement of Sion House—to the solitudes of Bradgate.—Put off those royal robes—restore the crown to her from whom you wrested it, and a long and happy life shall be yours. But set foot within that galley—enter the gates of the Tower—and another year shall not pass over your head.” “Guards!” cried Lord Guilford Dudley, advancing and motioning to his attendants—“remove this beldame and her companion, and place them in arrest.” “Have patience, my dear lord,” said Jane, in a voice so sweet, that it was impossible to resist it—“the poor woman is distraught.” “No, lady, I am not distraught,” rejoined the old woman, “though I have suffered enough to make me so.” “Can I relieve your distresses?” inquired Jane, kindly. “In no other way than by following my caution,” answered the old woman. “I want nothing but a grave.” “Who are you that dare to hold such language as this to your queen?” demanded Lord Guilford Dudley, angrily. “I am Gunnora Braose,” replied the old woman, fixing a withering glance upon him, “nurse and foster-mother to Henry Seymour, Duke of Somerset, lord protector of England, who perished on the scaffold by the foul practices of your father.” “Woman,” rejoined Lord Guilford, in a menacing tone, “be warned by me. You speak at the peril of your life.”