"Why do you say that?" asked Mary, startled.
"Master Wren said those words—like that—'the poor Queen!' ma'am."
Mary stared at him intently; her arms tightened about him. Suddenly she pressed him up to her bosom, where his little head rested patiently among her thick laces.
"The poor Queen!" she whispered wildly, and drew him closer, till he was half frightened by the force of her embrace and the beating of her heart beneath his cheek.
"Oh, ma'am!" he cried, "I have even dropped the blackamoor's teeth."
She let him go, and watched him with desperate eyes while he searched and recovered the gleaming white shells from the dusty floor.
As he busily sought for one in the shadow of the chest, a soft whistle sounded twice; he sprang to his feet at once.
"That is my father—I must go now, ma'am."
The Queen held out her hands appealingly.
"Will you not kiss me?"