The Constable of the Tower

“This dandiprat’s conceit is insufferable,” cried the page. “Since he hath been appointed the king’s dwarf, he gives himself the airs of a Spanish grandee. I vote we drive him from our company.”

“Attempt it at thy peril, proud minion,” retorted Xit, fiercely, laying his hand upon the hilt of the miniature weapon with which he had been provided. “I stir not, and, by our lady! he who touches me shall rue his harshness.”

“Ha! what is this?” cried Fowler, who chanced to be passing at the moment—”a brawl near the presence-chamber! By the rood! you must mend your manners, my masters, or some of ye will smart for it. Ah! art thou there, my merry dapperling?” he added, noticing Xit. “Come with me. The king hath asked for thee.”

“Dost mark that, sirrah page?” cried Xit, scornfully, to his opponent. “If I be not fit company for thee, I am for thy sovereign lord and master. An thou wait’st till his majesty sends for thee, thou wilt tarry long enough. I follow on the instant, worshipful Master Fowler,” he added, strutting after the gentleman of the privy-chamber, amid the laughter and jeers of the pages and henchmen.

Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Seymour had reached his destination, and with a throbbing heart entered the waiting-chamber of Lady Herbert’s apartments. Here he found an old porter, who, bowing respectfully, informed him that her ladyship, his sister, was without at the moment, but would return anon.

“I will await her coming, Thopas,” said Sir Thomas, proceeding towards the inner apartment.

“Nay, there are two ladies in that room, Sir Thomas,” cried the porter.

“Are they young or old, Thopas?” inquired Seymour.

“As to the matter of that, Sir Thomas, I should judge one of them to be neither old nor young, but betwixt and between, as we may say, though she is still a comely dame. But the other I take to be young, though I cannot speak positively, seeing that her face was muffled up, but her gait and figure were those of a buxom damsel.”

“I will in and resolve the point,” said Seymour, smiling at the old man’s description of the princess and her governess. And lifting aside the arras, he entered the adjoining chamber.

It was a large room, hung with costly tapestry and silken stuffs, the latter embellished with golden birds deftly wrought in needlework, while the arras was covered with roses, fleurs-de-lys, and lions. Over the high, carved chimney-piece was placed a life-like portrait of Henry VIII., painted by Holbein, by whom the chimney-piece had likewise been designed. The roof was of oak, ornamented with grotesque figures. The chamber was lighted by a deep oriel window filled with stained glass, and in this recess, at a table covered with a Turkey carpet, sat two ladies, one of whom, it is almost needless to state, was the Princess Elizabeth, and the other her governess, Mistress Ashley. Of the latter it may be observed, that she was amiable and accomplished, but foolishly indulgent to the caprices of her somewhat headstrong pupil, of whom she was dotingly fond, and who did just what she pleased with her.

Mistress Ashley was seated at the bottom of the recess, and was so much occupied with her book that it is to be presumed she did not remark Sir Thomas Seymour’s entrance. At all events, she neither looked up then, nor raised her eyes during the subsequent interview between the princess and her suitor. What use she made of her ears we pretend not to determine. The lovers gave themselves little concern about her.

On beholding Sir Thomas, Elizabeth arose and came forward to meet him. Seymour immediately threw himself at her feet.

“Rise, Sir Thomas,” she cried. “I cannot listen to you in this posture.”

“Pardon me if I disobey you, sweet saint!” cried Seymour, passionately. “A suppliant at your shrine, I cannot rise till my prayers are heard. Forbid me not thus humbly to pay my vows to you—to tell you how deeply and devotedly I love you!”

“Nay, in good sooth, I must be obeyed,” rejoined Elizabeth, in a tone not to be disputed.

“Have I become indifferent to you?” cried Seymour, rising, and assuming a despairing tone. “Have I deluded myself with the notion that my love was requited?”

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