Harleston here left me to be spokesman, whilst he, by some admirable manoeuvring, made his way unto the other end of the room, where was sitting Mary, apparently most busily engaged in stitching upon a piece of tapestry. Whilst faithfully I told the story of Gloucester's treachery, which I have already put down, and therefore need not repeat, my friend approached Mary, who appeared not to see him until he stood before her. I say she appeared to not see him; and yet this is not exactly correct. I should say she tried to appear to have not seen him. But what then caused that hand of lily whiteness so gently to tremble, like an aspen leaf? And that bosom of Venus' mould to rise and fall so quickly, if it were not that the heart beneath had buried in its core the fire-pointed arrow shot by that lovely tyrant, Cupid, with such unerring accuracy as had put Robin Hood to shame? When at length she did look up it was with the pleasant smile with which she would greet a friend from whom she had parted but an hour before. Evidently Mary was becoming more timid, and using the greater care to conceal her feeling the more hopelessly she felt herself entangled in love's silken meshes. As is ever the case with those of proud spirit, when they are fairly trapped, they play the indifferent, to conceal their real feelings from the eyes of their captors, or the curious. However, ere I had finished the telling of the tale to the Queen, Mary had changed her manner as she would a garment, and stood before Harleston, looking up in to his face, as though drinking in his every word. I know not what was the tale he was unfolding; but of one thing I am certain, and that is, it was not the same as I was telling to the Queen. This could I see by the expression upon Mary's face, which reflected nothing if not pleasure. When I had finished with my story, the Queen, in her gentle look, thanked me for the service. "But oh! Sir Walter, I have yet greater trouble than the fate of those at Pomfret," said her Majesty, after sitting with folded hands and gazing with fixed eyes into vacancy. "Yes, madam, and what may be worse than the evil fate of those we love?" I asked, though I knew full well what would be her answer. "Yestere'en," she said, "Cardinal Bouchier, accompanied by the Bishop of York, came here to see me. When admitted the Cardinal fawned, as is his custom, and with oily tongue informed me that my late husband's hump-backed brother desired my little Prince, the Duke of York, to be permitted to attend his brother's coronation. "'Go back to him that sent thee and say that the Queen, the little Prince's mother, hath the Duke of York in her own keeping, where he prefers to be, instead of with his uncle.' "'But, madam,' said the Bishop, 'the little King desires to have his brother with him, that he may not be lonely.' "'He should be permitted to come and tell his mother so, instead of resting as a prisoner, the which mayhap he is," I replied.