“No one,” returned Mabel, without raising her eyes.
“No one,” echoed Harry, chucking her under the chin. “Look me full in the face, and you will find out your mistake. Marry, if I were the royal Henry, instead of what I am, a plain Guildford merchant, I should prefer you to Anne Boleyn.”
“Is that said in good sooth, sir?” asked Mabel, slightly raising her eyes, and instantly dropping them before the ardent gaze of the self-styled merchant.
“In good sooth and sober truth,” replied Henry, rounding his arm and placing his hand on his lusty thigh in true royal fashion.
“Were you the royal Henry, I should not care for your preference,” said Mabel more confidently. “My grandsire says the king changes his love as often as the moon changes—nay, oftener.”
“God's death!—your grandsire is a false knave to say so! cried Harry.
“Heaven help us! you swear the king's oaths,” said Mabel. “And wherefore not, sweetheart?” said Harry, checking himself. “It is enough to make one swear, and in a royal fashion too, to hear one's liege lord unjustly accused. I have ever heard the king styled a mirror of constancy. How say you, Charles Brandon?—can you not give him a good character?”
“Oh! an excellent character,” said Brandon. “He is constancy itself—while the fit lasts,” he added, aside.
“You hear what my friend says, sweetheart,” observed Harry; “and I assure you he has the best opportunities of judging. But I'll be sworn you did not believe your grand-sire when he thus maligned the king.”
“She contradicted me flatly,” said Tristram. “But pour out the mead, girl; our guests are waiting for it.”