size and resources, in his attempts to find some defenseless nation which could be plundered with impunity; and he was dying in ignorance of what his endeavors had achieved.
And Kennaston was at Blickling Hall when King Henry read the Pope's letter which threatened excommunication. "Nan, Nan," the King said, "this is a sorry business."
"Sire," says Mistress Boleyn, saucily, "and am I not worth a little abuse?"
"You deserve some quite certainly," he agrees; and his bright lecherous pig's eyes twinkled, and he guffawed.
"Defy the Pope, then, sire, and marry your true love. Let us snap fingers at Gulio de Medici—"
"Faith, and not every lass can bring eleven fingers to the task," the King put in.
She tweaked his fine gold beard, and Kennaston saw that upon her left hand there was really an extra finger.
"My own sweetheart," says she, "if you would have my person as much at your disposal as my
