I must to the stables.

Well, my lord, I order your retinue now; the time may soon come that my master of the horse shall order mine own.

What was Thomas Cromwell but a smith's son?
and he died my lord--on a scaffold, doubtless, but that, too, was in character.
And what was Ralph Sadler but the clerk of Cromwell?
and he has gazed eighteen fair lordships--VIA! I know my steerage as well as they." So saying, he left the apartment.
In the meanwhile the Earl had re-entered the bedchamber, bent on taking a hasty farewell of the lovely Countess, and scarce daring to trust himself in private with her, to hear requests again urged which he found it difficult to parry, yet which his recent conversation with his master of horse had determined him not to grant.
He found her in a white cymar of silk lined with furs, her little feet unstockinged and hastily thrust into slippers; her unbraided hair escaping from under her midnight coif, with little array but her own loveliness, rather augmented than diminished by the grief which she felt at the approaching moment of separation.
"Now, God be with thee, my dearest and loveliest!" said the Earl, scarce tearing himself from her embrace, yet again returning to fold her again and again in his arms, and again bidding farewell, and again returning to kiss and bid adieu once more.

"The sun is on the verge of the blue horizon--I dare not stay.

Ere this I should have been ten miles from hence." Such were the words with which at length he strove to cut short their parting interview.