Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy.
They went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelled room with a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or a page within it. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down to wait.
“Oh, thank God!” whispered Anthony.
Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door.
“Now, now, no love-making within there!”
Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the ripple of a lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled again and nodded at Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough and tuneful, began to sing a verse of the little love-song of Harrington’s, Whence comes my love?
It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to some one to come in.
Anthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two, which doubtless represented Walsingham’s obeisance. Then the Queen’s voice began again, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner room listened breathlessly.
“I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without any talk or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me.”