“Tush, Mary!” cried the queen, her whim taking possession of her, “you are a fool! ’Twill be a mask worth playing. Right glad should I be to be merry for one hour; we will go now—at once!”
“Madam, madam, ’tis too late!” exclaimed Lady Rochford; “the king’s grace will be ill pleased.”
Anne drew herself up with flashing eyes.
“Who gave you charge of me, my Lady Rochford?” she said bitterly; “am I the queen or you?”
Her sister-in-law winced and drew back, but she bit her lip in passionate anger at the rebuke.
“Have your way, madam,” she said coldly; “we are but your servants.”
The queen turned her back upon her with a gesture of disdain.
“Mary,” she said to Mrs. Wyatt, “go you and get me a mask and a sober mantle and hood; and you, Mistress Carew, call hither some gentlemen we can trust to escort us; we shall need but two stout serving men beside.”
“Madam, who shall I summon?” Betty asked, and then added with a slight hesitation, “Master Simon Raby?”
The queen smiled archly, bringing a blush to Betty’s cheek.