As if paralyzed with horror, he stood there motionless, staring up at the sky and repealing over and over, "Thomas Seymour! Thomas Seymour! So he is a sorcerer who administers a love-potion to all the women, and befools them with his handsome, saucy face.

Thomas Seymour! The queen loves him; the princess loves him; and then there is this Duchess of Richmond, who will by all means be his wife! This much, however, is certain, he is a traitor who deceives both, because to both he has made the same confession of love.

And there again is that imp, chance, which compels me to be the confidant of both these women.

But I will be well on my guard against executing both my commissions to this sorcerer.

Let him at any rate become the husband of the princess; perhaps this would be the surest means of freeing the queen from her unfortunate love." He was silent, and still gazed up thoughtfully at the sky.