The Queen obeyed and, returned, said—­

“There be a bishop and a priest, I cannot see which, for it grows dark, with chaplains and sundry of the lords of Council waiting audience.”

“Good.  Then we’ll try the devil on these devil-tamers.  Friend Satan, go you to that door, slip through it softly and rush upon them roaring, driving them through this chamber so that we may see which of them will be bold enough to try to lay you.  Dost understand, Beelzebub?”

Thomas nodded his horns and departed silently as a cat.

“Now open the door and stand on one side,” said the King.

Cromwell obeyed, nor had they long to wait.  Presently from the hall beyond there rose a most fearful clamour.  Then through the door shot the bishop panting, after him came lords, chaplains, and secretaries, and last of all the priest, who, being very fat and hampered by his gown, could not run so fast, although at his back Satan leapt and bellowed.  No heed did they take of the King’s Majesty or of aught else, whose only thought was flight as they tore down the chamber to the farther door.

“Oh, noble, noble!” hallooed the King, who was shaking with laughter.  “Give him your fork, devil, give him your fork,” and having the royal command Bolle obeyed with zeal.

In thirty seconds it was all over; the rout had come and gone, only Thomas in his hideous attire stood bowing before the King, who exclaimed—­

“I thank thee, Thomas Bolle, thou hast made me laugh as I have not laughed for years.  Little wonder that thy mistress was condemned for witchcraft.  Now,” he added, changing his tone, “off with that mummery, and, Cromwell, go, catch one of those fools and tell them the truth ere tales fly round the palace.  Jane, cease from merriment, there is a time for all things.  Come hither, Lady Harflete, I would speak with you.”

Cicely approached and curtseyed, leaving her boy in the Queen’s arms, where he had gone to sleep, for she did not seem minded to part with him.

“You are asking much of us,” he said suddenly, searching her with a shrewd glance, “relying, doubtless, on your wrongs, which are deep, or your face, which is sweet, or both.  Well, these things move Kings mayhap more than others, also I knew old Sir John, your father, a loyal man and a brave, he fought well at Flodden; and young Harflete, your husband, if he still lives, had a good name like his forebears.  Moreover your enemy, Maldon, is ours, a treacherous foreign snake such as England hates, for he would set her beneath the heel of Spain.

“Now, Dame Harflete, doubtless when you go hence you will bear away strange stories of King Harry and his doings.  You will say he plays the fool, pelting his servants with inkpots when he is wrath, as God knows he has often cause to be, and scaring his bishops with sham Satans, as after all why should he not since it is a dull world?  You’ll say, too, that he takes his teaching from his ministers, and signs