At these words Betty started uneasily; she hated the mention of a wizard since the prophecy of the scar.
“Little in measure, sweetheart, but great in power, doubtless,” said the queen.
“Your grace would find him a marvellous strange character,” Mrs. Wyatt answered; “when I sat and looked at him and heard him tell me the most secret thoughts of mine own heart, verily, my blood ran cold.”
“Were thy secret thoughts so evil, Mary?” asked Anne, archly.
“It mattered not what they were, my queen,” Mary Wyatt said; “it was his manner of telling them, and his fearful eyes which burnt into my brain.”
“The girl is frightened,” said the queen, laughing; “for shame. I thought you a brave heart.”
“Madam, I am no coward, as ye know,” her attendant answered with spirit; “but the man is gruesome, and he has tales and prophecies that are marvellous to hear.”
“What is he like?” asked Anne, curiously.
“He is short and bandy-legged, and has a countenance like a wolf’s, with great black eyes that burn like fire.”
“’Tis Sanders,” said Betty Carew; “Zachary Sanders, the great wizard.”