“You are a courtier, Master Raby,” she replied, “and have a readier wit than mine, but you can never make me admire the woman who broke this good queen’s heart.”
“Nay,” he answered softly, “it is you, fair Mistress Betty, who will make me do your bidding, not I you.”
At this, she blushed the color of a fresh June rose, being as yet unused to fine speeches, and Master Raby stood looking at her, thinking her fairer than any beauty of the court, when Sir William Carew came up and cut the conversation short.
“Come, niece,” he said briefly, “we ride at once. And you, Raby, will you bear us company or no?”
“I thank you, yes, Sir William,” he replied with alacrity; “all is in readiness; the horses at the door, and my man, whom you admired so much, in attendance.”
“The knave will hang,” rejoined Carew, grimly. “Come, Betty, there is no time for fine speeches or farewells. I must set out for Greenwich without delay, and you go with me.”
“Whither, uncle?” said Betty, quickly; “surely not to the court?”
“And wherefore surely not?” asked Sir William, testily.
“I know not what you will do with me there,” his niece said softly.
“You go to the queen’s grace, my girl,” Carew replied grimly, “if she will have you.”