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....
'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 know all your tale of a letter. Come now, pretty one. Up, pretty soul.' He bent over benevolently and stroked her hand.