The anxiety that seized on the invisible spectators of the chapel may be imagined. The queen was entirely absorbed with the thought of her daughter; but on hearing the terrible indiscretion of this foolish or inspired woman she with difficulty stifled a cry of terror.
“More has written to you, then?” continued Cromwell, whose ingenuity was never at fault.
“Yes, to recommend himself to my prayers, but not on this subject.”
“But you have spoken with him many times,” replied Cromwell in a confident tone, although he really knew nothing about it.
“Once only,” she answered, “in the house of the Carthusians at Richmond, where I saw him with Masters Beering, Risby, and my Lord Rochester.… But they
advised me not to speak of these things, and to keep my revelations secret.”
“They were only the more criminal,” replied Cromwell; “because it was their duty to have unfolded the wicked designs of which you are guilty toward his royal majesty.”
At the word “guilty” she raised her head and fixed her black and piercing eyes upon Cromwell.
“Guilty!” she exclaimed. “It is a crime, then, to speak the truth?”
She said no more, but took her seat without awaiting permission.