“How can you tell what may happen in a short while?” retorted Mrs. Wyatt, with emphasis.
“No boy,” said the old woman, calmly; “if we have much more ill luck, ’twill be the King of Scots.”
“They will nab thee as a traitor yet, if thy tongue wags so free, my lady,” said Mrs. Wyatt, with a startled glance about her; but her odd companion only laughed grimly.
“Look there, Mistress Betty,” she added in a moment; “’tis our relative, the master of horse, Nicholas Carew, and yonder is his grace of Exeter and that pretty boy, Courtenay. What would you say, Mistress Wyatt, if I prophesied that he would be a king of England?”
“Hold your tongue, madam, or surely you will lose your ears,” replied Mrs. Wyatt, but smiled at her companion’s manner.
“They can but roast me at the best, as they did the poor folks from Holland who held such queer notions, which were doubtless no better or sounder for the cooking,” returned Lady Crabtree, laughing harshly. “Look you, Wyatt, they would have treated Latimer as they did these Anabaptists, and now he is a bishop. Presently they will make me a duchess for my sound policy.”
Mrs. Wyatt, however, did not heed her; she was looking eagerly at a group across the room.
“There is Jane Seymour,” she said quickly, “and she is radiant to-day.”
“And will be more so presently,” remarked the old woman, calmly; “my lord of Canterbury can make this matter straight, and the Bishop of Rome will nail no bull upon the doors of Flemish churches.”
“I pray you speak less idly, madam,” Mrs. Wyatt said, offended; “I love the queen’s grace, as you know.”