“Who’s that?” asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the storm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.
“Why that’s Chris Hatton—whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he’s as silly as one, too, with his fool’s face and his bleat and his great eyes. He trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I’m sick of him. That’s enough of the ass; tell me about Isabel.”
Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered her questions.
“Then she isn’t a Papist, yet?” she asked.
Anthony’s face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing.
“There, there, there!” she cried. “No harm’s done. Then that tall lad, who was away last time I was there—well, I suppose he’s not turned Protestant?”
Anthony’s face was still more bewildered.
“Why, my dear lad,” she said, “where are your eyes?”
“Mistress Corbet,” he burst out at last, “I do not know what you mean. Hubert has been in Durham for years. There is no talk——” and he stopped.
Mary’s face became sedate again.