“John,” said she, smiling, and yet trembling with impatience, “John, give me the letter.”
“I will sell it to you, queen. I have learned that from the king, who likewise gives nothing away generously, without taking in return more than he gives. So let us trade. I give you the letter; you give me the rosette which you wear on your shoulder there.”
“Nay, indeed, John; choose something else—I cannot give you the rosette.”
“And by the gods be it sworn!” exclaimed John, with comic pathos, “I give you not the letter, if you do not give me the rosette.”
“Silly loon,” said the queen, “I tell you I cannot! Choose something else, John; and I conjure you, dear John, give me the letter.”
“Then only, when you give me the rosette. I have sworn it by the gods, and what I vow to them, that I stick to! No, no, queen—not those sullen airs, not that angry frown. For if I cannot in earnest receive the rosette as a present, then let us do like the Jesuits and papists, who even trade with the dear God, and snap their fingers at Him. I must keep my oath! I give you the letter, and you give me the rosette; but listen—you only lend it to me; and when I have it in my hand a moment, I am generous and bountiful, like the king, and I make you a present of your own property.”
With a quick motion the queen tore the rosette from her shoulder, and handed it to John Heywood.
“Now give me the letter, John.”
“Here it is,” said John Heywood as he received the rosette. “Take it; and you will see that Thomas Seymour is my brother.”
“Your brother?” asked Catharine with a smile, as with trembling hand she broke the seal.