“Ill?” repeated the queen, sadly; “nay, my girl, not ill, but fearful. I knew not that thy blood was so weak. When Anne Boleyn sees danger approaching, her heart beats with a bolder pulse; she feels that she is sprung of a warlike race which is not so ill a match for the Tudors. Come, come, Mary, dry thy tears; the May sun is shining; it is almost as fair a day as that first of June on which I made my progress through London.”
“I pray that it may shine on you with greater blessing, madam,” replied Mistress Wyatt, drying her eyes.
The queen looked down the long table; at the end one of her old servants stood weeping; on either hand were pale faces, even Betty Carew had lost her splendid coloring.
“Mistress Carew,” said Anne, “why is your face so long? I do not think you love me, yet your cheek is wan. Is my case, then, like the queen’s at Kimbolton?”
There was a rustle, a stir of amazement, but the words were spoken.
“Madam,” said Betty, in a low voice, “between the ill and suffering lady who died yonder and your grace’s youth and health there can be no comparison.”
“My Lady Crabtree takes you to Deptford,” said Anne, quietly; “’tis well. I would not bring disaster upon one so young, and who has no cause to love me.”
“I pray your grace to let me remain,” Betty cried, her generous spirit stirred; “I would not leave you in the hour of trouble.”
“Trouble!” the queen laughed hysterically, “who speaks of it? ’Tis gay, a festival at Greenwich. Hark!” she cried suddenly, “what is that?”
The stir of an arrival in the antechamber, the great doors thrown open, the voice of the usher announcing his grace of Norfolk and the lords of the Privy Council.