BY ANN S. STEPHENS._Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 6, June 1842

(Concluded from page 245.)

The duke saw his wife, and at first seemed willing to avoid her, but

after moving forward a step or two, he turned back, took her hand in his

with an energy that startled her, and pressing his lips to it, turned

away and hurried on with the guard still surrounding him.

The duchess stood gazing after him, filled with strange apprehension.

The force with which he had wrung her hand was still painful, and there

was an expression in his face which made her heart sink with sad

forebodings. What had befallen him? Where was her daughter—and why did

he, who so seldom forgot the etiquette of his high station, take leave

of her thus, when only going forth for a morning? As the gentle and yet

proud lady stood pondering these things in her mind, the old counsellor,

whom we have mentioned, returned slowly up the corridor, and approaching

her with touching reverence, told her all. She thanked him, tried to

smile as she extended her hand—but in the effort her strength gave way,

and she fell pale and helpless on the stone floor. The old man lifted

her in his arms, and carrying her to the Lady Jane Seymour’s room,

placed her on the bed, and bathed her temples with water, which he laved

from a silver basin with his hand, till at last he went forth in despair

to call assistance, for she lay upon the glowing counterpane pale and

still, like a draped statue reposing in the purple gloom which filled

the chamber; and for many long hours the lady who had always seemed so

quiet, proud, and almost void of feeling, remained as one dead.

It was half an hour before Lady Jane was informed of her mother’s

condition. She was still in her father’s closet, with her hand locked in

that of Lord Dudley, and her large troubled eyes bent earnestly upon

him, as he spoke to her in a voice so deep, so earnest and impassioned,

that every tone thrilled through her heart with a power that made it

tremble.

“Do not look at me thus. In the name of heaven, speak to me, Jane. I

have not done this; it is no fault of mine. Do I not love you?—ay, and

will forever! I will follow my father, beseech him, kneel to him if

needs be, and put an end to this dreadful contest; but speak to me

first—my own—my dearest—say that you will struggle for power to aid

me that—nay, Jane, nay, do not shrink from me; one kiss—one look, to

prove you love me as before, and I will go at once. All will terminate

well—God bless you!”

As the young man finished his hurried speech, he lifted the young girl

from his bosom, where she had fallen in utter abandonment to her

tenderness and grief, pressed her forehead with his lips again and

again—then folding her to his heart once more, he carried her to the

chair her father had just occupied, and placing her within it, was about

to leave the room. Lady Jane put back the long ringlets that had fallen

over her face with both hands, and looked after him through the tears

that almost blinded her. Then rising to her feet, she tottered toward

him with outstretched arms, and when he turned for a last look, sprang

forward and wound them almost convulsively round his neck. It was but

the paroxysm of a moment, for scarcely did she feel his clasp together

about her, when she drew gently back, checked the tears that gushed into

her eyes afresh, and spoke breathlessly, as one whose very heart was

ebbing with the words, as they came laden with pain to her lips—

“It is in vain, Dudley, all in vain. There have been words and deeds,

this day, between your father and mine, which must separate us forever.

Farewell!”

He would have expostulated, have soothed her with hopes which had no

foundation in his own mind, for his thoughts were in confusion, and his

heart seemed ready to break with contending feelings; but as he spoke,

her slender fingers wreathed themselves convulsively around his hand,

her face was uplifted to his for a moment, and she glided swiftly

through the door and along the corridor to the chamber where her mother

was lying, and left him standing bewildered and in pain, as if a

guardian spirit had been frightened from its brooding place in his

heart.

* * * * *

In an apartment belonging to that portion of the tower occupied by the

sovereigns of England sat a pale, slender boy reading. The room was

furnished in a style of magnificence, befitting one of high rank and of

habits more elegant and studious than were usual to the court of Henry

the Eighth during his reign. The books which it contained were richly

bound, and some of them encrusted with jewels; all had clasps either of

silver or of gold, and a portion were entirely filled with manuscript in

the hand-writing of the late King Henry.

Tall windows cut deep into the massive walls in one side of the room

filled it with light. The massive stone sills were cushioned with

velvet, and upon the cushions, musical instruments of the most precious

wood and inlaid with gold, had been flung down, as if their owner had

become weary of one amusement only to seek another. The boy arose from

his easy leathern chair, and moving toward the window, ran his fingers

thoughtfully over the strings of a lute that lay on the cushion, gazing

idly through the glass at a court below, as he was thus occupied. After

a moment he sauntered back to the chair, took up the volume of

manuscript which he had left open on a small and curiously carved table

standing near the window, and sinking once more to his seat he began to

read again, but the book seemed to fatigue him at last, so allowing it

to sink, still open, to his lap, the youth gradually sank to a fit of

abstracted musing, and sat with his head resting on his hand, and his

large eyes fixed dreamily on the face of a great ebony clock which stood

opposite the window, its burnished face glittering through a whole bower

of carved wood, and its huge pendulum swaying to and fro with a dull,

sleepy motion, well calculated to continue the state of languid

thoughtfulness into which the youth had fallen.

As King Edward the Sixth—for the boy was no less a personage—sat

musing, thus languid from ill health, and rendered somewhat more sad

than usual from the manuscript and book which he had been reading, a

page entered, and before he had time to speak, Lord Dudley, son of the

reigning protector, followed him into the room. The young nobleman

looked pale and much agitated, and Edward himself seemed a little

startled by his abrupt entrance, for he was so little accustomed to

being consulted on matters regarding the welfare of his kingdom, that

any person thus nearly connected with the Lord Protector became an

object of nervous dread to him; for such persons seldom interrupted his

retirement except to counsel some change of residence, or dictate

regarding his personal habits, which to a person naturally shy, and

rendered sensitive by illness, was always a subject to be dreaded, but

never opposed. It was therefore with something of dismay in his pale

features, that Edward received his visiter.

Dudley advanced close to the king’s chair, and sinking to one knee,

pressed his lips reverently to the slender hand which the royal youth

extended with habitual courtsey, though a languid and deprecatory smile,

rather than one of welcome, stole over his lip.

“My lord,” he said in a voice low and almost femininely sweet, “I am not

well to-day, but if your good father recommends that we remove to

Windsor, let the household be prepared; he is the best judge, though in

his strong health and great energy he does sometimes tax our weakness a

thought too far with these sudden removals.”

Edward motioned the young nobleman to arise as he spoke, and when he

still retained a kneeling posture, looked in his face with something of

astonishment.

“My liege,” said Dudley in a respectful and low voice, “I did not come

from my father. Alas, since he became Duke of Northumberland and

Protector of this realm, there has been little of confidence between us.

I have come to you, my liege, on a subject dear as my own life, one

which I dare not again intrude upon him, though every feeling of

friendship and honor should make him listen to my prayer.”

“Of what speak you?” said Edward apprehensively, while his large eyes

wandered from the young nobleman’s face to other objects in the room, as

if he would gladly have avoided any subject of interest, “of whom speak

you—and of what?”

“I would speak, my liege, of the duke, your highness’ uncle, of his

suffering wife and daughter, who now lie with him, prisoned within these

very walls; I would claim that justice and clemency at your hands, which

I have sought and knelt for in vain, at the feet of my own father.”

The king sank back into his chair, and passed his pale hand across his

forehead, as if the subject were not only a painful one but not entirely

comprehended in its full import.

“We know,” he said at length, “that our uncle has been found or thought

guilty of many evil practices against the good people of our realm, and

that our present able protector has seen it best to imprison him for a

season; but we did not know that our noble aunt and sweet cousin Jane

were the companions of his captivity. Pray, can you inform us, my good

lord, how this all happened? Of what wrong has our sweet playmate and

cousin been accused, that she too must be drawn from her home? His Grace

of Northumberland forgets that the same blood which fills the veins of

his king fills hers also; pray explain, my lord. We have no power to

sift all the evil practices of our government, but even his grace, your

father, must be careful how he deals with one of our mother’s house.”

The feeble youth became animated with a spirit which surprised Lord

Dudley, as he uttered these words. A bright flush spread over his

cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with the excitement which sprang both from

disease and a resentful feeling, perhaps the most violent that ever

visited his gentle heart. Naturally kind and most affectionate in his

nature, he had always clung with fondness to those members of his family

connected with his mother, and, since her birth, the Lady Jane had been

his especial favorite. It therefore aroused all the strong feelings of

royal pride in his heart to hear that a creature so pure and delicate

had been, through an abuse of power, made the inmate of a prison. Nor

was he better reconciled to the fact when Dudley informed him that it

was through her own affectionate desire to mitigate the confinement of

her persecuted parent that she had abandoned all to follow him. The

youthful monarch was touched by an act of devotion such as his own heart

would have prompted, and he questioned Lord Dudley regarding the

arbitrary power by which the fallen protector had been imprisoned, with

a degree of energy, and an evident determination to know the exact

position of affairs, which astonished as much as it pleased the anxious

nobleman.

Lord Dudley’s was a difficult and painful explanation. It was scarcely

possible to place the proceedings against the Duke of Somerset in a

favorable light before the young king, without in some degree exposing

the conduct of his own parent to condemnation. Still he had entered the

presence of his sovereign with a firm resolve to explain all, and throw

himself and his hopes on the generosity of a mere boy, and an invalid,

who had ever been completely controlled by his guardians, those

guardians the very men whom he was called upon to brave. It was with

faint hopes, that Dudley undertook this last appeal, when all other

efforts to assist his friends failed, and when he had done speaking,

when he saw the feeble youth lying back in his chair, pale and exhausted

from the emotions which his narrative had excited, he felt almost

condemned, that any motive could have induced him to disturb the repose

of a being so fragile and sensitive.

“My liege, my kind, gracious master,” said the young man, starting to

his feet as the overpowered monarch sank back to his chair, faint, pale,

and with his golden lashes quivering upon his thin cheeks as they closed

his eyes; “my gracious king, forgive me that I have thus intruded—that

for any reason I have disturbed a repose which should be sacred to the

whole nation; but the persecution of a being so fair—so good—one whom

I have long looked upon as my future wife—who is now suffering and in

prison”—

Dudley broke off abruptly, for all at once the hectic color rushed back

into the king’s face, and his languid blue eyes kindled with the

brilliancy of a spirit, for the first time, thoroughly aroused.

“Were we indeed a king,” he said, “a true, free king as our father was,

and not the invalid child which men see in us, these things could not

happen. No man would dare to enter the councils of a nation and cast

their leaders into prison without the sanction, nay, command of his

monarch. But, alas! there is not in the kingdom a being more completely

held in thrall than ourself! Until now, we were scarcely made aware of

the persecution which has been so ruthlessly urged against our

uncle—but it shall not be! The new duke, thy father, must not thus

abuse the authority with which the council, rather than ourself, has

invested him!”

Edward arose, excited to some degree of strength by the indignation of

his generous heart, and walked up and down the room once or twice, as if

to tranquilize his spirit, then seating himself once more, he requested

Lord Dudley to explain the cause and all the particulars of Somerset’s

arrest.

It was a difficult task which the young monarch imposed on his visiter;

for Dudley loved his father, and it was impossible to enter into the

desired explanation without, in some degree, implicating him; but a

sense of justice, and that true love which brought him to Edward’s

presence, urged him to obedience, and while he so guarded each word as

to cast as little blame as possible on his own parent, he pleaded the

cause of his friends with a degree of enthusiasm that aroused all the

love of justice and family affection, which were strong and

predominating qualities in the heart of the youthful monarch.

Edward sat perfectly still, shading his eyes with his small, thin hand,

till Dudley had finished speaking; and even for several moments after,

he remained motionless, and as if lost in thought. At last, he allowed

the hand to drop from his eyes, and looked up.

“My lord,” he said, in a firm, clear voice, “you have acted rightly and

well in laying this subject before us. Our reign may be a brief one, but

it shall be marked, at least, by one act of justice. Come hither again

after nightfall. Meantime we will consider the subject and decide what

can best be done.”

Dudley bent his knee reverently, kissed the pale hand extended toward

him, and left the presence. As his fine, healthy form disappeared

through the door, and the vigorous footfall of youth and firm health

sounded back from the corridor, Edward looked after him, smiled very

sadly, and sinking down to his chair, exhausted with the scene,

murmured:

“How well he is! how full of life and hope! and I—” He covered his face

with both hands, and tears trickled through his fingers, till they fell

like rain amid the sables that lined his robe. “And yet,” he added at

last, removing his hands and wiping away the tears, while a brighter

expression stole over his face, “and yet I have the power to make him

happy—and Jane, my sweet cousin. Let me act while I have yet strength!”

Edward arose once more, unlocked a miniature cabinet which stood upon

the table, and taking out a small golden flask, drank off its contents.

The potion seemed to compose and strengthen him; a color came to his

lips, and his eyes had within them that strange, glittering fire which

springs from artificial excitement. A small branch of twisted ebony,

hung with a cluster of tiny bells, lay upon the table. The king took it

up, and rang the bells till the apartment seemed haunted in every nook

and corner with a gush of fairy music. As the sound died away, the door

was opened, and a page presented himself, evidently much astonished at

the energy with which his summons had been rung.

“Go to the lieutenant of the tower,” said Edward, promptly, as the page

advanced to receive his orders. “Tell him that the king desires his

presence without delay.”

The boy disappeared instantly; and when his companions in the ante-room

crowded near to know why it was that a sound so full and bold had

summoned him, in place of the faint, silvery tinkle which usually came

from the king’s apartment, he put on a look of profound mystery, and,

after describing the change which had come upon his royal master, gave

it as his decided opinion, that something very tremendous and

extraordinary was about to happen, but what the event might be he was

not at liberty to inform them. This much he would, perhaps, venture to

say. The lieutenant of the tower would soon be ordered to present

himself before the king, and after that something might transpire to

surprise them all. With these profound sayings, the boy departed from

the ante-room, putting on his plumed cap with an important air, and

placing a finger to his saucy red lips, in token of secrecy, as he

looked back in passing through the door.

After an absence of half an hour, the page returned, following the

lieutenant of the tower, for whom he ceremoniously held the door opening

to King Edward’s chamber. The lieutenant passed in to the royal

apartment, while his young escort closed the door after him, dexterously

managing to leave it unlatched, and sufficiently ajar to command, for

himself, a view of all that was passing within, while he stood toying

with his cap, and, as his companions supposed, retaining his station

merely to be within hearing of the king’s bell.

So little had Edward mingled in the affairs of his nation, that, for the

first time in his life, he addressed an officer of his kingdom in the

man who stood before him, who stood lost in astonishment at a summons so

strange and unexpected.

Though a little restrained and shy in his manner, from almost constant

illness and seclusion, there was a degree of quiet dignity about the

young king’s bearing as he extended his hand to raise the lieutenant

from his kneeling posture, that well became his station and his royal

nature.

“We have sent to command your presence, sir lieutenant, somewhat against

our usual habit; having been informed, to-day, that our uncle, the Duke

of Somerset, with the gentle ladies of his household, have been placed

prisoners under your care. Our desire is, that they be discharged the

tower, at once, and sent, with all due honor in our own royal barge, to

the duke’s palace on the Strand. You are commanded to see to this;

retaining only, in pledge, the solemn word of our uncle, that he present

himself before us, his king, in three days, to be confronted with his

accusers, and to answer the charges brought against him.”

Edward slightly waved his hand, when he finished speaking, as if he

deemed farther conversation or ceremony unnecessary; and, after thus

quietly expressing his wishes, desired to be alone.

The lieutenant was a shrewd man, who held his station under favor of

Northumberland, and who had been taught, like most of his fellow

subjects, to regard the king as a mere shadow in his own realm. He was

taken by surprise—so completely deprived of all presence of mind, by a

command totally unexpected, and most important in its nature, that for a

moment he stood gazing hard upon the floor, completely at a loss how to

act, or what to say. At last, he cast a furtive look on the young

monarch, who stood tranquilly regarding him, but instantly turning his

eyes away, again bowed almost to the ground, and said, in a soft,

deprecating voice, that he would mention the king’s desire to the Lord

Protector forthwith, and that he would, doubtless, sign the order

necessary for a release of the noble prisoner.

A fire, like that in the eye of an angry falcon, shot into the large,

blue orbs which Edward fixed upon his officer. A streak of crimson

flashed across his forehead; his slight figure was drawn proudly up,

and, as his velvet robe, with its heavy facings of sables, fell back and

swept the floor, there was a majesty in his look which well became a son

of Henry the Eighth. After regarding the confused lieutenant a second,

with a glance, which made that personage more desirous to leave the room

than he had even been to enter it, the young monarch turned away,

saying, in the same calm and tranquil tone in which his first command

had been given—

“The King of England will write his own orders—wait.”

Seating himself by the table, Edward took up a pen, and though his

fingers trembled with weakness upon the parchment, wrote and signed an

order for his uncle’s release, the first and last legal document that

his own free will ever originated. After it was written, he took up a

small agate cup, perforated in the side, and after shaking a quantity of

gold dust over the damp ink, he folded the parchment and held it toward

the still irresolute lieutenant. There was something in the manner with

which all this was done; so quiet, so firm and full of dignity, that, in

spite of himself, the officer was awed by a feeling of respect which

could not be resisted. Bending his knee, he reverently took the

parchment, pressed his lips to the hand which extended it, and left the

presence, irresolute how to act, and yet deprived of sufficient courage

to resist the command of his sovereign.

As the page ran forward to open a door which led from the ante-room to a

corridor, through which the lieutenant was obliged to pass, he saw, at

the farther extremity, the Duke of Northumberland, now Lord Protector,

moving toward the king’s apartments, followed by some half dozen

retainers whom he left near the entrance, while he advanced to meet the

lieutenant with a look of surprise and displeasure at seeing him there.

The page observed that when the duke and his officer met, they conversed

earnestly and with considerable animation together, but in low voices,

and all the time looking suspiciously around to be certain that no

person was within hearing. They were thus engaged for more than ten

minutes, while the restless page stood, with the door in his hand,

regarding them through a crevice thus conveniently created to gratify

his curiosity.

“Now,” said he, muttering to himself as he softly swung back the door a

little to increase his opportunity of survey—“now, if I could but steal

through without making these rusty hinges sound an alarm, it would be

rare pastime to creep along the wall and hear what treason those lofty

old fellows are plotting. It is no light matter, I’ll warrant—see, how

the tall old duke clutches his fingers and bends his dark forehead over

his eyes till one can scarcely see them, beneath the hoary brows—see,

his lips are pressing hard upon each other like a vice—now is his turn

to speak—nay, if I were master lieutenant now, beshrew me! but I should

get away from that beautiful old gentleman without waiting to say ‘by

your leave!’ There he stands, looking the king a thousand times more

than my young master yonder, and I doubt not berating that poor

lieutenant, as if he were a hound. See, how slowly, and with what a

manner he lifts that right hand, holding the finger up, and shaking it

before the poor lieutenant as if it were the blade of a dagger. Beshrew

me! but I must learn more of this game—the corridor is half in shadow,

and they can but kick me out, like a troublesome dog, if I am

discovered—so be quiet, latch and hinge, if you can, for once.”

As the boy half muttered, half thought these words, he gently pushed

back the door, and was about forcing himself through the opening, but a

noise, created by the rusty hinges, was not the only means of betraying

his attempt. A space large enough to admit his body also served to fling

a line of light far into the dim corridor, which startled the two

persons he was regarding more than a noise could have done. They both

turned and looked keenly toward the door. The duke uttered a brief

sentence and moved on, waving his hand imperatively to the lieutenant.

He also went down the passage, and passing the group of attendants in a

hurried manner, disappeared through a door at the opposite extremity,

through which the duke had entered the corridor.

Meantime the page, finding himself in danger of detection, had escaped

to his post near the king’s chamber. When Northumberland approached, he

arose from the bench on which he had flung himself, looked up from

beneath the feathers of his cap, with a sleepy yawn, and moved forward

to announce the Lord Protector, rubbing his eyes as he went, and

laughing with silent mischief beneath the concealment of his drooping

plumes. As the duke passed him at the door, he paused an instant and

fixed a keen glance on his face, which the boy returned by taking off

his cap, and bending his curly head almost to the ground, while, with

the most frank and cheerful of all voices, he prayed for long life to

the noble Lord Protector.

If Northumberland had any suspicion of the boy at first, it was half

disarmed by that clear voice and the handsome face sparkling with

intelligence lifted to his. There was something mischievous and yet

affectionate and pleasing in it, which brought a smile to his own face

as, with careless munificence, he flung a piece of gold into the boy’s

cap and entered the king’s chamber.

The page was not so much elated by the gift but that he would have been

at his old trick of listening once more; but after advancing a pace into

the chamber, Northumberland turned back, looked at the urchin with a

half smile, and closed the door himself.

A laugh from his companions, who witnessed his defeat from another end

of the room, sent a flood of crimson over the boy’s face, but shaking

his curls with an air of good-natured bravado, he gave the golden coin a

triumphant toss, which sent it flashing like a star up into the sunshine

which poured through a neighboring window, and catching it in his hand

again, sprang forward and joined the laugh merrily as the most gleeful

among them. Instantly, the noisy troop were silenced by a sharp

bell-tone from the king’s chamber.

“Hush!” said the page, balancing the coin on his finger and eyeing it

with a roguish look as he bent his head to listen. “That was the crusty

old duke! such fellows hate an honest laugh as King Harry did holy

water! they would keep us cooped up here like a flock of pigeons without

the privilege of a coo. Hark! again, I must keep quiet till the old one

is away, and then we will try a game of chuck farthing in the corridor,

if we can get this shiner changed into half crowns and farthings.” So,

grasping his fingers over the gold, the page nodded to his companions,

leaving them half terrified by the thoughts that their merriment had

reached—not the king, he was too good and lenient to chide them for

harmless mirth—but the stern duke, whom they all feared beyond measure.

The page looked back upon them, as he entered the chamber, tried to

smile and seem courageous, though he was half frightened out of his

wits—and the next instant stood in the presence of his sovereign, with

his bright, black eyes—half concealed by their long lashes—bent to the

floor, and a brilliant red burning through the ringlets that fell over

his cheek. He seemed the very picture of a living and healthy Cupid in

disgrace.

“What noise was it that reached us but now from the ante-room?” said the

Lord Protector, sternly, as the boy appeared before him. “Is it with

this rudeness and riot you surround the chamber of our invalid king?

Begone, sirrah! strip off the royal livery at once and return to your

mother, if you have one.”

The boy lifted his face to that of the stern duke and his cheek dimpled

even while it turned white with fear, a smile was so natural to it. But

when the last cruel words were spoken, the long lashes drooped over his

eyes again and grew heavy with moisture. He turned away from the face

frowning upon him, and, kneeling at the king’s feet, lifted his

eyes—now full of tears—to those of his master and said,

“I have no mother.”

Edward’s kind heart was deeply touched by the sadness with which this

was said. He was but a youth himself, and forgetful of his dignity and

of all but the sweet, pleading face lifted to his, he laid his thin hand

upon the curls which fell back from it, and would have kissed the

forehead, but an exclamation from Northumberland warned him of the

impropriety. Still the page had seen the impulse and the generous tears

which filled the mild eyes of his master. His young heart swelled with

grateful affection, and, burying his head in Edward’s robe, he sobbed

aloud.

“Poor boy! he is an orphan like ourself. You will not send him hence, my

lord duke,” said the young king, turning his face with an anxious and

almost pleading look upon his guardian. “The offence was not heavy; and

see how penitent he is.”

“The offence not heavy, my liege?” replied the duke harshly, “have I not

given orders that no sound shall disturb your highness’ repose, and

notwithstanding this, am I not distracted almost in my first private

audience by the riotous mirth of this urchin and his mates?”

“Nay, we have ourself somewhat to blame in this—having little cause for

merriment in our own heart, and pining here day after day—for, alas!

kings have no companions—it has sometimes been a comfort to hear the

merry laugh of these thoughtless boys—to know that cheerfulness is not

shut out from our presence forever. That health and laughter—which is

its music—is yet a thing of earth; though, alas! a blessing which we

may witness, but never enjoy. Shut out the sunshine which smiles through

these windows, the stars which at night time glimmer through that narrow

line of glass, and which we have learned to read when pain has made our

couch sleepless, till they have become as old friends; break yon lute,

whose music is to this faint heart like the voice of a good child to its

parent, and, above all, send away the cheerful voices which sometimes

fill the next room, and you have wrested from the King of England the

only fragment of his inheritance that was ever his.”

The page looked up as his master was speaking, the tears were checked in

his eyes, and he knelt breathlessly, as one who listened to the voice of

an angel. The proud Northumberland turned his eyes from the pale,

spiritual face of his royal ward, and bent them on the floor. There was

a look of patient suffering in those features which touched his better

nature; something in the sad, broken-hearted feelings which filled that

voice, which found a passage to his soul, even through the selfishness

and ambition that encased it. Other thoughts, too, were busy in his

mind. He had a point to carry with the young monarch—a difficult and

doubtful one. His animosity against the page only arose from resentment,

excited by his conversation with the lieutenant, and some faint

suspicion that he had played the listener while that conversation was

held. A moment’s reflection convinced him that to have heard any part of

his conference, from the distance at which he had caught a glimpse of

the boy in the corridor, was impossible; so, resolving to make his

concession the means of obtaining a much greater one from the king,

Northumberland determined to seem won to mercy by sympathy and regard

for his ward.

While these thoughts were passing through the mind of that crafty man,

Edward remained in his chair, supporting his head with one hand, while

the other still lay caressingly, and half buried amid the bright

ringlets of the kneeling culprit, who gathered the royal robe between

his small hands, and kissed the glowing velvet with grateful eagerness,

while his bright face was again deluged with tears—such tears as can

only know their birth in a warm, wayward, and affectionate nature.

“Forgive the pain my zeal in behalf of a health so precarious has

occasioned,” said the duke, advancing graciously to the king, while his

face relapsed into one of those bland smiles which sometimes beamed like

magic over his proud features. “Heaven forbid that anything which is

dear to your highness, however faulty, should be condemned by one whose

first aim is to render his king happy! Let the boy go at once! Far be it

from me to desire his chastisement. Go, sirrah,” he added, taking hold

of the boy’s arm and lifting him from his knees, but still giving to the

action and words a tone of good-natured encouragement, “go to the

ante-room; here is another piece of gold to repay the fright we have

given you.”

The page stood up; his checks flushed once more beneath the tears that

stained them. He looked upon the proffered gold, and, with a motion of

the head, betraying both pride and boyish petulance, seemed about to

refuse it, but a glance from his master, and something in the duke’s eye

which awed him, checked the resentful impulse, and taking the gold, with

half muttered thanks, he knelt once more at Edward’s feet, kissed the

hand which was kindly extended, and bursting into tears again, left the

chamber.

The moment he reached the ante-room, our page flung himself on a bench,

and burying his face in the tapestry that cushioned it, sobbed aloud.

His companions gathered about him in dismay, anxious to learn the cause

of his tears; but it was a long time before he would reply to their

questions. At last he started up, dashed the two pieces of gold on the

stone floor till they rang again, and told his friends to take them

up—fling them into the court below—toss them for farthings—do

anything with them—but protested that he would never touch them again.

After this ebullition of boyish wrath, he gave a glowing description of

the tyranny which had been practised upon him by the duke; of the

goodness of his royal master; and of the great danger which had

threatened them all. Whereupon, they jointly and severally entered into

a contract never to laugh again during the whole course of their

lives—a resolution they persisted in keeping for a full half hour, when

our young hero set them all into convulsions by a most ludicrous

imitation of the protector’s manner as he took leave of the lieutenant.

When this new burst of merriment died away, the group of youngsters

stood for a while frightened by their own boldness, and expecting each

moment to hear another summons to the royal chamber; but instead of the

sound they feared, came another which overwhelmed them with surprise. It

was the voice of their royal master, louder than any one had ever heard

it before, and powerful with strong feeling. The duke’s voice was also

heard, sometimes stern and almost disrespectfully harsh, again soothing

and persuasive, with something of that cajolery in its tone which one

might expect from the hired nurse of a wayward child.

While these unusual sounds were continued in the king’s apartment, the

pages gradually drew nearer to the door, till they could command some

broken sentences of what was passing within. At length the king’s voice

grew fainter and less distinct. Northumberland now and then uttered a

brief sentence, and his heavy footsteps were plainly heard as he strode

up and down the room. At last a sharp ringing of the bells sent the

listeners to a distant part of the room, where they stood gazing in each

other’s faces, uncertain whether they ought to obey the summons or not.

Their doubts were speedily relieved, for the door was flung open and the

Duke of Northumberland appeared, looking pale and much agitated. He

beckoned with his hand, and the page that we have mentioned so often

entered the chamber. He found the king lying back in his chair, faint

and pale as death; his lips were perfectly bloodless, and though he

seemed insensible, the silken vest worn beneath his robe was agitated by

the quick and terrible beating of the heart it covered.

With instinctive affection, the page untied the silken fastenings of his

master’s dress, and exposing the delicate neck and chest, which heaved

and throbbed as if the heart were forcing a passage through, he

commenced chafing it with his hands, till the agitation became less

painful and apparent.

At length, Edward unclosed his eyes and drawing his doublet together

with a trembling hand, tried to sit up. Northumberland advanced and

seemed about to address him, but he shrank back with a nervous shudder.

After a moment, he got up again and would have spoken, but his lips only

trembled; he had no strength to utter a word. Northumberland walked to a

window, where he stood some time with his arms folded, gazing gloomily

through the thick glass. Still the page knelt by his master, chafing his

hands, and folding the robe over his feet with that kind assiduity which

bespoke an affectionate nature.

At length Edward spoke, and the duke turned eagerly from the window,

evidently relieved by this proof that his late attack would not be

immediately fatal.

“My lord,” said the king, faintly, “you see how impossible it is that

this subject can be discussed farther. I beseech your grace, have my

wishes obeyed, both regarding your son and all the parties concerned.”

Again Northumberland’s brow darkened, and he seemed about to

expostulate, but Edward looked him gravely in the face and added,

“It _must_ be so, my lord duke, or England will not brook the

imprisonment of a protector who, with all his faults, knew how to

respect the rights of his king.”

The color forsook Northumberland’s face, but still he frowned and looked

unyielding. Edward arose feebly from his chair, and leaning upon the

shoulder of his page, moved toward an inner bed-chamber. The duke saw by

this movement that all hope of further conference was cut off, and

feeling himself baffled and forced to act against his wishes by a mere

youth, he once more forgot his usual crafty composure and the respect

due to his sovereign.

“My liege,” he said, almost imperatively, “this is requiring too much; I

cannot grant it.”

Edward turned so as to face the angry noble, and while still supported

by the page, answered mildly, but with the same steady will as before,

“My Lord of Northumberland,” he said, “either our uncle, the Duke of

Somerset, returns to his palace to-morrow as we have directed, or on the

next day he goes there Lord Protector of England.”

With a slight wave of the hand, and with his features contracted with

the pain which his effort to speak occasioned, Edward turned away and

passed into his bedchamber without waiting for a reply, which, in truth,

Northumberland was unable to give, so completely was he astounded by

what had already been said.

The page would have called other assistance when Edward reached his

bedchamber, but the invalid prevented him, and after having the points

of his dress untied, lay down upon the bed, faint and exhausted. The boy

moved about him with that soft, gentle tread so grateful in the chamber

of an invalid. He smoothed the pillows, drew the counterpane of embossed

velvet over the recumbent monarch, and, taking some scented woods from a

closet, flung them into a brasier that stood in the fire-place, and

nursed the flame beneath till the chamber was filled with a soft, drowsy

atmosphere, grateful to the sense, and almost certain to produce

tranquil sleep. Then he would steal once more to the bed, pull back the

voluminous curtains, and bend over the pale form resting there till his

dimpled cheek, so damask and healthy, almost touched that of the

monarch, and the wreath of his bright curls fell amid the damp masses of

hair which swept over the pillow, in a contrast that was lovely and yet

painful to behold. When satisfied that his master was asleep, the boy

stole softly from the chamber, as had always been his habit, to await

the time of his waking in the next room. He started with surprise on

seeing it still occupied by the Duke of Northumberland, who stood before

the window gazing sternly into the court below, and evidently lost in a

train of most unpleasant thoughts. When the boy entered he started

impatiently, and, clearing the frown from his face with an effort,

crossed the room.

“Tell your master,” he said, addressing the page, “tell your master that

his wishes shall be obeyed—say that all shall be in readiness by eight

this evening;” and with these words Northumberland left the royal

apartments.

Either the protector’s voice aroused Edward, or he had not slept, for

scarcely was the door closed when his voice summoned the page to his

bedside. When the duke’s message was repeated to him, a smile of

satisfaction settled on his face, and he sank into a tranquil slumber.

After awhile those usually quiet apartments were full of bustle and

preparation. Attendants passed in and out; pages were seen running to

and fro with mysterious faces. More than one laden wherry untied its

contents at the tower stairs, and everything bespoke the approach of

some uncommon event.

* * * * *

One little month had scarcely passed when the Duke of Somerset, bereft

of wealth and station, sat in a gloomy prison room of the tower,

expecting each moment to be dragged forth to trial, and, perhaps, an

ignominious death. It was a large room, but so dimly lighted that

persons sitting together looked sallow and careworn in the dusky

atmosphere that filled it. The very sunbeams forced themselves

sluggishly through the high window, as if rusted by the masses of old

iron which blocked their passage, and were lost, long before they

reached the floor, in a web of ragged and dusty cobwebs, which covered

the ceiling like mouldering tapestry, moth-eaten and turning to dust

where it hung. There, on the gloomy floor of this desolate place, sat

the prisoner, striving to read by the unhealthy light, which was only

sufficient to make the effort a painful one. He lifted his eyes to the

grating with an impatient exclamation, and, flinging his book on the

floor, began pacing up and down the stone flags. Instantly a figure

started forward from an inner room and lifted the book; while the sweet,

pale face of Lady Jane Seymour was raised for a moment to that of her

suffering parent, as he moved rapidly up and down the room. She laid the

book once more upon the flags, and exerted all her frail strength to

move the chair her father had occupied to a station nearer the window.

This done, she again lifted the ponderous volume with her two fair

hands, smoothed out the dark letter page which had been doubled in the

fall, and bearing it to the duke, besought him to sit down, while she

read aloud to him.

Somerset paused a moment in his walk, impelled by the persuasive but sad

tones of his child; but confinement had made him irritable; so,

extricating his disordered cloak from the slight grasp which she had

fixed upon it, he pushed the book from him with a violence which sent it

crashing to the floor again, and resumed his restless occupation. The

book had fallen upon the flags, with its broad leaves downward, and

crushed beneath the heavy binding, that, with the ringing of the heavy

clasps, as they struck the stones, brought another person into the room,

but so changed, so thin, and broken-hearted in appearance, that few

persons who had seen the dignified, proud, and lovely Duchess of

Somerset, in her high estate, could have recognised her as she stood

within the sickly atmosphere of her husband’s dungeon.

The gentle lady moved across the room, her rich, but now soiled,

vestments sweeping the dusty floor as she passed; while her daughter was

patiently occupied in smoothing the pages which had been injured in

their fall, and in brushing away the dust which they had gathered, she

approached her husband, placed a hand upon his arm, and looked with a

sad smile into his face.

“The apartment within is less gloomy than this,” she said; “come and sit

with us; you, who never failed to share the sunshine of life with us,

should not thus brood alone, now that sorrow has befallen us. Come!”

Somerset turned abruptly from his noble wife, and to conceal the

emotions her sweet, patient manner had awakened, rather than from

continued moodiness of spirit, he still paced up and down the darkest

part of his dungeon, with all the appearance of continued irritation,

for he was ashamed of the tears which, in spite of himself, sprang to

his eyes on witnessing his gentle and yet proud wife so fallen and so

patient in her ruin.

The duchess was rendered quick-sighted by affection, and, speaking in a

low voice to her daughter, the two left the fallen man to the liberty of

grief. The room which they entered was scarcely superior to the other,

but more light was admitted to it; and where is the spot so dark, or so

full of discomfort, that a loving and intelligent woman cannot give some

domestic charm to it? When the unfortunate lady and her still more

unfortunate child left their palace home, and besought permission to

share the confinement of a husband and a father, they had been permitted

to bring a few objects of comfort to cheer the desolation which

surrounded him. Several leathern chairs, and a stool or two, cushioned

and embroidered by the fair beings who selected them for that reason,

stood within the room. Lady Jane had swept and garnished the stone floor

with her own delicate hands, all unused as they had been to such menial

service. A rude table was there, a few favorite books lay upon it, and a

lute, the companion of many a happy, childhood hour, was now taken up by

that gentle girl, that its sweet tones might soothe the moody spirit of

the proud man, who seemed scarcely conscious of her effort to

tranquilize him.

Lady Jane knew that it but mocks a broken spirit to see anything it

loves over-cheerful; so her strain, though not gloomy, was touching, and

a sad one, so sad that her father, as he walked in the adjoining room,

forgot the selfishness of his sorrow and wept like a child, that two

creatures so gently nurtured should thus inhabit a prison, and, for his

sake, exert their broken spirits to render it cheerful. After a while he

entered the apartment where they were, and going up to the duchess he

bent down and kissed her, while his right hand rested on the head of the

young girl sitting at her feet. Lady Jane lifted her grateful eyes to

his face and smiled. When her father kissed her forehead also fondly,

and with the affection of former times, a swarm of kindly feelings

sprang to her heart; her light fingers touched the lute again, and a

gush of music, not gay, and yet scarcely sad, filled the dungeon room.

It was a home song, such as they had loved in better days, and it awoke

many pleasant memories; so, amid all their sorrows, these three

persecuted beings sat together in domestic companionship, almost happy.

If chains were upon them, their love of each other twisted a few golden

links amid the iron which no human power could wrest away.

The memories which the song awakened gradually led the conversation to

brighter themes, and for awhile the inmates of that dungeon almost

forgot their present condition. They talked of former days, and, as they

talked, an expression amounting almost to a smile rose to the face of

the father. The sunshine, too, seemed to partake of their joy, streaming

in more gaily through the narrow window, and playing, like a wilful but

merry child fitfully across the floor; while a bird—a wanderer from

green fields far away—pausing a moment outside the casement, poured

forth such a gush of music that it thrilled the inmost hearts of the

listeners with joy. Could the duke have seen them then how would he have

envied them.

But, as the day wore on, their thoughts once more were brought back to

the full consciousness of their present situation, and again a shadow

came over the souls of the members of that little family, typical of the

sunshine which but just before had been shining so merrily through the

casement, but which now had vanished, leaving the dungeon room dark and

forbidding.

The gloom of coming night at last gathered thickly in the dungeon,

rendering it still more cold, desolate and prison-like. The duke still

retained his sombre mood and gazed gloomily on the stone flags at his

feet, while his patient wife sat by his side, her hand resting in his,

and her sweet, low voice now and then whispering words of endearment,

such as her proud and modest nature had considered too bold at any time

save when the beloved one was in affliction, or in any place except that

miserable dungeon room. Hers was the love of a true and delicate nature.

And, like the flame of a lamp which, scarcely seen amid the glare of

sunshine, grows brighter and more vivid when surrounded by darkness, it

seemed the only faithful or bright possession left to the fallen man.

Nay, there was yet another, scarcely less wretched than himself, or less

clinging and affectionate than the woman who would have comforted him.

That gentle girl, still tireless in her wish to please, crouched at his

feet, and the soft notes of her lute stole up tremblingly and thrilled

amid the darkness which shrouded them all. She felt that her father’s

thoughts were far from her, that the melody which sprang from her weary

fingers was all unheeded, and yet she played on, glad that in the

darkness she could weep without being seen. So, as her hand wandered

over the strings, tears streamed down her pale cheeks, unchecked, and

fell upon it till the fingers were damp as if they had been laved in a

fountain. Sometimes a sob would escape with the tears, but then came a

gush of wilder music and the voice of her sorrow was concealed by it.

The wife still wound her fingers lovingly in the prisoner’s hand,

grieved that no answering clasp was given back, and yet chiding herself

for selfishness that she could expect to be thought of at such a time.

The daughter wept on, and still coined her tears into music. But the

husband and father had become almost unconscious of these efforts; he

was like a caged lion indignant with his keepers, and with his heart

full of the forest where he had once prowled a king. At last there was a

sound of feet mustering at the prison door. It was about the hour when

their evening meal might be expected. The little group looked listlessly

up when the bolts were withdrawn, and the glare of a torch fell bright

and crimson through the door. Somerset started to his feet, while the

duchess withdrew her hand, and resuming her usual air of gentle dignity

moved back a pace, where she stood pale and composed, ready to receive

the lieutenant who, for the first time, entered their dungeon in person.

“My lord duke,” said the lieutenant, addressing his prisoner with some

embarrassment, but throwing into his voice and manner that respectful

homage which the fallen protector had scarcely hoped to witness again;

“my lord duke, I am sorry to intrude on your privacy, or to interrupt

the music with which this gentle lady soothes your prison hours, but I

have orders for your removal to another room.”

“To another room!” exclaimed the duchess, while her cheek blanched

whiter and her voice was changed with apprehension, “and we, his

daughter Lady Jane and myself, surely, surely, we go also!”

“Not yet, noble lady; the protector has ordered it otherwise; but I

beseech you take it not to heart, the separation will be a brief one,”

said the lieutenant, bending before the terrified duchess as he spoke.

“Nay, sweet lady, do not weep,” he continued, turning to Lady Jane, who

had dropped her lute to the floor, and stood directly in the light, with

her hands clasped firmly together and her tearful face exposed; “it

pains me to witness such sorrow for a cause so groundless. It is but a

change of apartments! A short time and you will doubtless receive the

Lord Protector’s sanction to cheer the noble duke’s apartments once

more; meantime, my orders are imperative! My lord duke, I trust that you

will not be displeased with the change. Permit me to lead the way!”

“I will be ready to attend you in a moment,” replied the duke, “but

first grant me a moment’s privacy. As my return is uncertain, I would

take leave of the duchess and my child without so many witnesses!”

The lieutenant bowed, and withdrawing from the dungeon, closed the door.

Then all the strong affections of his nature rushed back upon the

wretched duke, for he believed that they were separating him from his

family forever. He tried to speak, but could not; a rush of feelings,

that had weighed down his heart to apathy before, choked his utterance;

a silent embrace and the clinging arms of his wife were forced from his

neck; another embrace, a blessing on his child, and before they could

cry out or strive to detain him, the door swung to with a sharp crash,

the light disappeared, and those suffering and helpless creatures were

left alone.

“Mother!” That word arose amid the darkness faint and broken with tears.

“My child, we are alone!” replied a second voice, made strong by the

agony of parting.

“No, not alone, mother, God is with us!” And, as she spoke, that noble

girl stretched forth her hands and groped the way to her mother in the

darkness. As she passed the lute, which still remained on the floor, her

garments brushed the strings and a tone of music stole through the

room—a pleasant tone—and it seemed that an angel had answered to those

trustful words.

The duchess, who had sunk down in agony of heart, began to weep when she

heard the sound, and so, in that dark and lonesome prison room, those

two helpless beings clung together and comforted each other.

An hour went by, and once more a sound of heavy feet was heard outside

their dungeon. The bolts shot back and a flood of light revealed the

duchess sitting in the chair left vacant by her husband. Kneeling upon

the floor, and half lying in her mother’s lap, was the Lady Jane; her

face had been buried in the vestments of her parent, and she had been

praying, but, as the door opened, her head was thrown back and a joyful

expression filled the soft brown eyes turned eagerly upon the entrance.

It was crowded with people, and an exclamation of pleasant surprise

burst from the duchess and her daughter when two females entered the

dungeon, each with a heavy bundle under her arm. In the foremost Lady

Jane recognised her old nurse, and the other had long been chief

tyring-woman to the duchess. Never were human beings so welcome, never

two beings “so happy without knowing why,” as these old warm-hearted

women.

“There,” said the nurse, holding the Lady Jane in her arms, and kissing

her fondly between the words; “there, I say, you with the crusty face,

roll in the coffer—that will do!” she added, as one of the men brought

in a good sized coffer, which the duchess recognised as her own.

“Now,” continued the old woman, still with her arms around her

astonished foster-child, “place that mirror on the table; softly, man,

softly, you are not wielding your iron bolts now, and that silver frame

is easily bruised if you knock the fillagree work about after that

fashion!—there, set it down, for a bungler as you are; place the lamp

in front; be careful, knave, you are treading on my lady’s lute—pick it

up!” The man pushed the lute aside with his foot, and set the lamp down

without regard to the old woman’s order.

“So, you cannot pick up the lute which a noble lady has fingered,

forsooth! Wait a few days, and we shall see you creeping on your knees

for the honor, instead of standing there with a look as stubborn as your

own iron bars. Go, bring in the case of essence bottles, if that does

not prove too heavy a task, and then take yourself off, for a clumsy

cur; a pretty serving-man you would make, I trow!”

The man, on whom the old woman’s eloquence was exercised, seemed very

willing to obey her last command. He brought in the case which she had

desired, and, placing it on the table, left the dungeon and was about to

lock the door, but just as he was closing it a clear cheerful voice was

heard in conversation with him. After a moment’s delay, the half-closed

door was swung open again to admit a handsome boy in the king’s livery,

who carried a casket under his arm.

“That was well thought of, my pretty page,” said the nurse, approaching

to take the casket, “but who has found courage to break the new

protector’s seal? If it was you, boy, I only hope that handsome head may

be firm on your shoulders six weeks hence. I would as soon have touched

a red-hot coal as the bit of wax sticking to the smallest cabinet in the

palace, and I saw all my lady’s jewels counted and locked up weeks ago.”

As she spoke, the old nurse allowed the Lady Jane to escape from her

embrace, while she advanced to the page, and would have taken the casket

from under his arm, but he stepped aside, with a roguish toss of the

head, and dropping on his knee before the young lady, placed the casket

in her hand. Bewildered, and as one in a dream, she gazed first upon the

casket, then, wonderingly, on the handsome boy at her feet.

“What means this?” she said at last, looking doubtfully toward the

duchess, who sat gazing upon the scene with equal wonder. “Our crest is

upon the lid, but underneath are the royal arms of England.”

The duchess arose, and, taking the casket from her daughter’s hand,

touched a spring. The lid flew open, and, with an exclamation of

surprise, the ladies saw, not their own jewels, but a magnificent suite

of diamonds which had once belonged to Jane Seymour, the Queen of Henry

the Eighth; a young creature who had perished in giving birth to the

present king—fortunate, perhaps, in being taken from her earthly state

before she had learned how terrible a thing it was to “outlive her

husband’s liking.”

“What means this—whence came the jewels?” exclaimed both ladies at

once, turning their eyes from the gems that flashed and glowed in the

lamplight, to the boy who had risen from his knees, and, with his plumed

cap, was brushing away the dust which his vestments had caught from the

floor.

“They were entrusted to me by my royal master, the king,” replied the

boy, who paused in his occupation and gazed upon the casket, as he

spoke, fascinated by the rich hues that played and quivered about it. “I

was bade to deliver them to the Lady Jane Seymour—to say that the king

desired that she would mingle them with the adornments of her fair

person before she placed herself under the escort of the lieutenant, who

will be here anon to bring farther orders from the Lord Protector.”

Before the astonished ladies could question him farther, he had obeyed

some signal given him from the door, and left the dungeon.

It was in vain the noble duchess questioned the nurse and the

tyring-woman. They were too much elated to gratify the anxiety of their

mistress, even if they had not been as much mystified as herself. All

they could say was, that a messenger had been sent from the Duke of

Northumberland with orders to convey them to the tower; that they were

commanded to take from the wardrobe, in the palace, every thing

necessary for the toilet of their ladies. Though scarcely half an hour

was allowed them for a choice, they had filled a coffer, and, with a few

things hastily collected, were hurried into a barge and so to the

dungeon of their mistress, scarcely realizing how it had all been

brought about.

This unsatisfactory information only served to increase the excitement

already produced in the minds of the prisoners; while their attendants

were busily searching for keys, and smoothing the rich vestments that

had been somewhat roughly crowded into the coffer, they looked on as

people in a dream. The glare of lights which filled every gloomy angle

of their dungeon; the velvet robes flung in glossy robes over the armed

chair; the jewels, twinkling and flashing like a cluster of stars, on

the table—all seemed like enchantment, and they looked on with a

strange emotion of hope mingled with foreboding and almost with

affright. Still there was something in all that had transpired,

calculated to encourage more than to depress. So after a few brief words

of consultation, the mother and daughter sat down and permitted the two

women to adorn their persons without farther question. The duchess was

speedily arrayed. In spite of her fears, a ray of hope had been

awakened, and her face, before so pale and care-worn, became almost

happy in its expression, save that a color, far more vivid than was

natural to her cheek, betrayed the anxious fears that struggled against

the more hopeful feeling that had sprung to life in her heart. She stood

by as they wreathed the diamond tiara amid the tresses of her daughter’s

hair, and, with her own fair hand, put back two or three of the brown

curls where they fell over the young cheek, which gradually became warm

and damask from the influence of anticipations which she could not

entirely control, and yet which she trembled to encourage. How beautiful

she looked in her robe of glowing velvet, with the tiara which had once

adorned a queen, shedding its starry brightness amid her hair and over

that pure forehead. Her neck, always beautiful, now gleamed out with

more pearly whiteness beneath the string of brilliants that shed a rich

light upon it; and, as the old nurse busied herself with the point lace

which draped her rounded arms, she looked up to her mother, and a sweet,

natural smile came faintly over her face. The mother did not smile, but

a brighter expression lighted up her eyes, and the two looked almost

happy making their strange toilet in a dungeon. The nurse had taken that

little hand, which trembled in her clasp with conflicting emotions, and

after pressing her lips upon the rosy palm, was drawing on the snowy

glove with its embroidery of seed pearls, when there was a sound at the

door, as of some person knocking against it with his knuckles, and,

after a moment, the lieutenant of the tower once more presented himself.

When the duchess advanced eagerly toward him, demanding a reason for all

that had transpired, he answered with the calm politeness which usually

marked his demeanor, that the Lord Protector had given orders that they

should be removed to another room.

“But, tell me,” said the lady, almost beside herself with anxiety, “tell

me, is it to the duke—is it to my husband you conduct us?”

A smile stole up to the lieutenant’s face. It might be one of irony

aroused by the keen anxiety which she displayed: it might be a sign of

admiration for the two beings that could look so lovely amid the gloom

of a dungeon; but they could not read its meaning, and he would give no