Their eyes met, and she saw a light shining in Raby’s that a duller woman could have read. A sweet confusion made her stand blushing like a timid child.
“And if I draw not my sword in your quarrel, for whom shall I draw it?” he said in a softer tone. “Fear not, Mistress Carew, the rogue shall have a just chastisement; ’tis not worthy of a thought of yours, yet I rejoice to think that what I do is not a matter of indifference to you.”
Betty looked up bravely. “Sir,” she murmured, “I shall never forgive myself if you take hurt in my cause. I pray you let him go; ’twas you who were the aggressor, and there can be no dishonor in counting the matter too unworthy for your notice. For my sake, since I made the offence, I do beseech you leave the quarrel to oblivion.”
Raby took her hand and kissed it passionately. “For thy sake, mistress, I would do all save lose my honor,” he whispered tenderly.
Betty drew away her hand with a crimson face just as Mary Wyatt and Lady Rochford came from the queen’s room, and so interrupted the tender little scene.
“Master Raby, I pray you do me the courtesy to bear this missive to Sir Francis,” Mrs. Wyatt said in a weary voice; “and then I trust that we may all sleep sound till morning dawns, and so try to forget this agony.”
“Has the king come?” asked Lady Rochford; “they told me that his grace came late last night.”
“And so he did, madam,” Raby replied, as he took Mary Wyatt’s missive and, with a salutation which included all, although his eyes sought Betty’s, he left the gallery to do his errand.
“To bed, to bed!” said Lady Rochford, when the three women were alone; “I am well nigh faint for lack of sleep.”
As they walked together to their chambers, Betty turned thoughtfully to Mrs. Wyatt.