talk about him, and watching the faces. What
he did see of the play did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. His
heart was too heavy with his errand, and it seemed to him that the
occasional glimpses he caught of the stage showed him a very tiresome
hero, dressed in velvet doubled and hose and steel cap, strangely
unconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was as unsatisfactory as
the slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of marvellous
beauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror's blood with
passion.

At last it ended; and an "orator" in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke a
kind of special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen,
and then retired bowing.

Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began to
blare out, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking the
way to step aside to make way for the Queen's procession, which would
shortly pass out. Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, and
then stood aside waiting.

There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman's
voice, followed by a murmur of laughter.

In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony's surprise
Mistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to make
room. Her eyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him to
follow, and he went down the corridor after her, followed her silently
along a passage or two, wondering why she did not speak, and then came
after her into the same little oak parlour where he had supped. A servant
followed them immediately with lighted candles which he set down and
retired.

Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek the
fiery mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes were
full of tears, and that her breath came unevenly.

"It is no use to-night," she said, with a sob in her voice; "her Grace is
angry with me."

"And, and----" began Anthony in amazement.

"And she struck me," said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. "It was all
my fault,"--and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. "I
was sitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor James
Maxwell; and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over,
she beckoned me up, and--and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so
solemn--for she would know--was it for _Scipio Africanus_, or some other
man? And--and I was silent; and A