"And with what intent?"
"To poison the holy water font, which I understand hangs at the head of her bed."
"A rare idea," hiccupped Shaw, "provided King Henry's powder be strong enough."
"'Sdeath, the young king likely dips his dainty fingers too therein, so that would only mar King Henry's matrimony for ever—well."
"The king's pages and attendants, archers, esquires, and priests, thronged every avenue, so all attempts to reach the room were vain. By the way of the bishop's kitchen, I had less hope; for though I might dose a dish strongly enough to poison a score, yet how could I be assured that Dame Margaret would eat of it?"
"True; then by the Holy Father, we have come but to hear of difficulties."
"And to learn that nothing has been done," grumbled Sir James Shaw; "a pestilent humbug!"
"Patience, sirs, patience," groaned Borthwick; "failing about the palace, I resolved to try what could be achieved by the way of the cathedral."
"Hah!" said Gray, starting.
"I know its avenues well—"