"Leave the room, Betty!" she exclaimed. "Am I to have every lazy jade in London prying and eavesdropping? Trot—look alive!"
She strode toward the reluctant maid and, with a good-natured push, hastened her exit. Then, closing the door, she turned again toward Phœbe, who had seated herself by the fire.
"Well, Polly," she resumed, "art still bent on thy foppish lover, lass? Not mended since yesternight—what?"
A cool slow inclination of Phœbe's head was the sole response.
"Out and alas!" the dame continued, tossing her head with mingled pique and triumph. "'Tis a sad day for thee and thine, then! This Sir Guy of thine is as good as dead, girl! Thy popinjay is a traitor, and his crimes have found him out!"
"A traitor!"
Phœbe stood erect with one hand on her heart.
Dame Burton repressed a smile and continued with a slow shake of the head:
"Ay, girl; a traitor to her blessed Majesty the Queen. His brother hath been discovered in traitorous correspondence with the rebel O'Neill, and is on his way to the Tower. Sir Guy's arrest hath been ordered, and the two brothers will lose their heads together."
Very pale, Phœbe stood with hands tight clasped before her.