his end was very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a month’s respite, then another, and finally a third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of Sir Richard.  It had not proved a happy one.  It was whispered about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found among her husband’s papers several rough and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the marriage—­and Sir Richard’s death, too—­by a wicked forgery.  Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since the father’s death Sir Hugh had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.

There was a bit of Andrew’s gossip which the King listened to with a lively interest—­

“There is rumour that the King is mad.  But in charity forbear to say I mentioned it, for ’tis death to speak of it, they say.”

His Majesty glared at the old man and said—­

“The King is not mad, good man—­and thou’lt find it to thy advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than this seditious prattle.”

“What doth the lad mean?” said Andrews, surprised at this brisk assault from such an unexpected quarter.  Hendon gave him a sign, and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget—­

“The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two—­the 16th of the month—­and the new King will be crowned at Westminster the 20th.”

“Methinks they must needs find him first,” muttered his Majesty; then added, confidently, “but they will look to that—­and so also shall I.”

“In the name of—­”

But the old man got no further—­a warning sign from Hendon checked his remark.  He resumed the thread of his gossip—­

“Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation—­and with grand hopes.  He confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour with the Lord Protector.”

“What Lord Protector?” asked his Majesty.

“His Grace the Duke of Somerset.”

“What Duke of Somerset?”

“Marry, there is but one—­Seymour, Earl of Hertford.”

The King asked sharply—­

“Since when is he a duke, and Lord Protector?”

“Since the last day of January.”

“And prithee who made him so?”

“Himself and the Great Council—­with help of the King.”

His Majesty started violently.  “The king!” he cried.  “What king, good sir?”

“What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we have but one, ’tis not difficult to answer—­his most sacred Majesty King Edward the Sixth—­whom God preserve!  Yea, and a dear and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no—­and they say he mendeth daily —­his praises are on all men’s lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in England; for he began humanely with saving the old Duke of Norfolk’s life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the people.”