a fool prophecy made by a drunken man. But there being
such a prophecy running up and down the land, and such a malignant and
devilish Red Cap ranting up and down the world, the hearts of foolish
subjects are made to turn.'

'Idiot wench,' the Chancellor suddenly yelped at her, 'ignorant,
naughty harlot! You had better have died than have uttered those your
pretty words.'

'Why,' Cromwell said gently, 'I am very sure that now you desire that
your cousin should slay this traitor.' He paused, licked his lips and
held out a hand. 'Upon your life,' he barked, 'tell no soul this
secret.'

The faces of all the four men were again upon her, sardonic, leering
and amused, and suddenly she felt that this was not the end of the
matter: there was something untrue in this parade of threats. Cromwell
was acting: they were all acting parts. Their speeches were all too
long, too dryly spoken: they had been rehearsed! This was not the end
of the matter--and neither her cousin nor Cardinal Pole was here the
main point. She wondered for a wild moment if Cromwell, too, like
Gardiner, thought that she had a voice with the King. But Cromwell
knew as well as she that the King had seen her but once for a minute,
and he was not a fool like Gardiner to run his nose into a mare's
nest.

'There is no power upon earth could save you from your doom if through
you this matter miscarried,' he said, softly: 'therefore, be you very
careful: act as I would have you act: seek out that secret that I
would know.'

It came irresistibly into Katharine's head:

'These men know already very well that I have written to Bishop
Gardiner! This is to hold a halter continuously above my head!' Then,
at least, they did not mean to do away with her instantly. She dropped
her eyes upon the ground and stood submissively whilst Privy Seal's
voice came cruel and level:

'You are a very fair wench, made for love and such stuff. You are an
indifferent good Latinist who might offer good counsel. But be you
very careful that you come not against me. You should not escape, but
may burrow underground sooner than that. Your Aristotle should not
help you, nor Lucretius, nor Lucan, nor Silius Italicus. Diodorus
Siculus hath no maxim that should help you against me; but, like
Diodorus the Dialectician, you should die of shame. Seneca shall help
you if you but dally with that fool thought who sayeth: "_Quaeris quo
jaceas post obitum loco? Quo non nata jacent._" Aye, thou s