The King looked past her into the gloom.
'He stands there still,' he said. 'He is tying his arm with a kerchief. He looks like one Throckmorton.'
'Then, if he have not run,' she said. 'Call him here. He has had my knife in his arm. He holds a letter of mine.'
His neck stiffened suddenly.
'You have been writing amorous epistles?' he muttered.
'God knows there was naught of love,' she answered. 'Do you bid him unpouch it.' She closed her eyes; she was done with this matter.
Henry called:
'Ho, you, approach!' and as through the shadows Throckmorton's shoes clattered on the boards he held out a thickly gloved hand. Throckmorton made no motion to put anything into it, and the King needs must speak.
'This lady's letter,' he muttered.
Throckmorton bowed his head.