“Aye, Mistress, and there was a score of other things that I would not let thee eat; ’twould make pimples on thy snowy neck and shoulders.”

“Dost think perchance the young man upon the stairway was the Duke of Monmouth?  He was very handsome, Janet, I think he was very, very handsome.”

“Thou dost have the names of the great upon thy tongue as commonly as thou sayest Janet; ’tis more than probable he is a country squire and—­”

“Dear Janet, go get thy supper and get back to me, for I would rather remain here alone than in yonder chamber.  ’Tis grand to live in so great a house, ’tis better than—­than the convent.  How soon shall I have fine frocks and jewels and—­a beau like yonder one on the stairway?”

“Thou art becoming exercised prematurely; his Lordship may not condescend to visit his puling babe before his guests depart.  In such case, thou wilt have time to cool thy haste.  I will go now.  Do not eat too much, Lambkin.”  Janet looked back admiringly as she left the room; her eyes upon her mistress’ daintily ruddy face, smiling at her from between two tall candles.

Every appointment of room and table was essentially English, and Mistress Katherine cast her eye about wondering if ’twas so, or, were they Scotch?  She inclined to the former, and a sigh of relief and happiness escaped her.

Suddenly there was a sound of hurrying footsteps with an accompanying one of broad Scotch oaths in no low key.  A lackey carrying a bag-pipe rushed into the room and out again without noticing its occupant.  At his very heels was a big Scotchman of large and ridiculous proportions; red hair, red face, red whiskers, red mustachios, and bandy-legs, petticoats and all; and a tongue ripping out hot oaths.  In a moment Katherine was upon her feet, her eyes flashed forth indignation.  The keen eyes of the Scot saw her at a glance.  He looked, stared, then bent almost to the floor before her and waited thus for her to speak.  She, not accustomed to the masculine courtesies of polite breeding, thought his attitude was too prolonged for either a bow of homage or humiliation; and she straightway in a voice that was tremulous with emotion, said: 

“Has the bitterness of thy tongue taken root in thy stomach?” Quickly he raised himself at her first word and gazed with enamoured looks at the amber folds of hair, her glowing face; and with panting breath his eyes rested upon the round fulness of her form as it palpitated with rightful perturbance.

“Betake thyself before I inform Lord Cedric of thy presence!” And she rapped smartly her knife-handle upon the table.  “Betake thyself, begone!” He did not stir nor find breath until she stood forth from the table and he saw her beauteous being from head to dainty toe of convent sandal.  Then he found voice, and in broad Scotch begged her clemency, advancing toward her the while and almost kneeling in his humility.

“If I did not know the queen—­”