nge. This man had wormed himself into her
presence: he was a traitor over and over again. And he had fooled her!
He had made her believe that he was lover to her. He had made her
believe, and he had fooled her. He had shown her letter to Privy Seal.

After the night in the cellar she had had the end of her crucifix
sharpened till it was needle-pointed. She trembled with eagerness.
This foul carrion beast had fooled her that he might get her more
utterly in his power. For this he had brought her down. He would have
her to himself--in some dungeon of Privy Seal's. Her fair hopes ended
in this filth....

He was muttering:

'Listen if you be there! Before God, Katharine Howard, I am true to
you. Listen! Listen!'

His hand shivered, turned against the light. He was hearkening to some
distant sound. He was looking away.

She tore the arras aside and sprang at him with her hand on high. But,
at the sharp sound of the tearing cloth, he started to one side and
the needle point that should have pierced his face struck softly in at
his shoulder or thereabouts. He gave a sharp hiss of pain....

She was wrestling with him then. One of his hands was hot across her
mouth, the other held her throat.

'Oh fool!' his voice sounded. 'Bide you still.' He snorted with fury
and held her to him. The embroidery on his chest scraped her knuckles
as she tried to strike upwards at his face. Her crucifix had fallen.
He strove to muffle her with his elbows, but with a blind rage of
struggle she freed her wrists and, in the darkness, struck where she
thought his mouth would be.

Then his hand over her mouth loosened and set free her great scream.
It rang down the corridor and seemed to petrify his grasp upon her.
His fingers loosened--and again she was running, bent forward, crying
out, in a vast thirst for mere flight.

As she ran, a red patch before her eyes, distant and clear beneath the
torch, took the form of the King. Her cries were still loud, but they
died in her throat....

He was standing still with his fingers in his ears.

'Dear God,' she cried, 'they have laid hands upon me. They have laid
hands upon me.' And she pressed her fingers hard across her throat as
if to wipe away the stain of Throckmorton's touch.

The King lifted his fingers from his ears.

'Bones of Jago,' he cried, 'what new whimsy is this?'

'They have laid hands upon me,' she cried and fell upon her knees.

'Why,' he said, 'here is a day nightmare. I k