“A picture of my father, Sir John Seymour,” replied Jane, blushing deeply.
“Let me look at it,” cried Anne, snatching the picture from her. “Ah! call you this your father? To my thinking it is much more like my royal husband. Answer me frankly, minion—answer me, as you value your life! Did the king give you this?”
“I must decline answering the question,” replied Jane, who by this time had recovered her composure.
“Ah! am I to be thus insolently treated by one of my own dames?” cried Anne.
“I intend no disrespect to your majesty,” replied Jane, “and I will, since you insist upon it, freely confess that I received the portrait from the king. I did not conceive there could be any harm in doing so, because I saw your majesty present your own portrait, the other day, to Sir Henry Norris.”
Anne Boleyn turned as pale as death, and Jane Seymour perceived that she had her in her power.
“I gave the portrait to Sir Henry as a recompense for an important service he rendered me,” said Anne, after a slight pause.
“No doubt,” replied Jane; “and I marvel not that he should press it so fervently to his lips, seeing he must value the gift highly. The king likewise bestowed his portrait upon me for rendering him a service.”
“And what was that?” asked Anne.
“Nay, there your majesty must hold me excused,” replied the other. “It were to betray his highness's confidence to declare it. I must refer you to him for explanation.”