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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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ivied wall, which divides the court from the river. In another moment
a body became visible as well as a head, and before I could count
twenty a man dropped from the top of the wall into the court. It was
Osbert Clinton. I recognised him even in that imperfect light, or I
should have challenged him. Guessing his purpose, I retired, placing
myself so that I could watch his movements without being
perceived. As I expected, his errand was to the Lollard’s Tower,
though how he hoped to gain admittance to Constance’s cell passed
my comprehension.”
“And did he gain admittance to her?” inquired Holiday.
“You shall hear,” replied Rodomont “Yon small grated window in
the upper part of the tower belongs to her cell. How, think you, he
contrived to reach it?”
“Nay, I can’t say,” replied Holiday. “He could scarcely climb up to
it.”
“Climb up a tower! No, I should think not. But for the ivy, he
would never have got over yonder wall. He reached the window by
means of a rope-ladder which he had brought with him. How the
plan had been preconcerted is more than I can tell you, but it was
evident Constance expected him. A slight cough served to announce
her lover’s presence to her. At the signal, a cord was immediately let
down from the window of the cell, and as soon as it came within
Osbert’s reach, he caught it, and fastening the rope-ladder to it, the
cord was quickly drawn up again, taking the ladder with it. In
another minute the ladder was made fast to the bars of the window,
and this done, up sprang Osbert, and was soon only separated from
the object of his affections by the grating.”
“A pize upon the grating!” exclaimed Holiday. “I would there had
been no envious bars between them.”
“That was exactly my feeling,” said Rodomont. “Their discourse
was in whispers, but I heard enough to learn that Osbert proposed
some means of escape to her, but judged from his expressions of
disappointment that she would not consent to the plan. Fear of
discovery compelled him to cut short the interview, however he
might have desired to prolong it, but before descending he promised
to come again to-night. The ladder being unfastened, he was quickly
over the wall, and in another minute must have regained the boat,
which I conclude was waiting for him. Now, what say you, my
masters? Shall we not aid him in his efforts to get this poor girl
away?”
“I will gladly do so,” replied Holiday.
“So will I,” said Simnel.
“Then we will forthwith set our wits to work, and something must
come of it,” rejoined Rodomont. “If she remains here, she is lost. But
see! the poor folk are beginning to crowd round the gate in
expectation of their dole. How many, think you, are daily fed by the
Cardinal?”
“Fifty or sixty, it may be,” replied Simnel.
“Upwards of a hundred,” said Rodomont. “Yonder comes his
Eminence, with Lord Priuli. Let us go down. This keen morning has
given me a rare appetite, and I propose that we hie to the great
hall, and break our fast with a cold chine and a flagon of humming
ale.”
“Agreed,” replied the others.
Whereupon they descended to the court, and bowing,
reverentially to the Cardinal and Lord Priuli as they passed them,
proceeded to the banqueting-chamber, where preparations were
already made for a substantial repast. Sitting down at a side-table,
they fell to work with right good will.
 CHAPTER IV.
OF THE UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT PAID BY THEIR MAJESTIES TO
CARDINAL POLE AT LAMBETH PALACE.

n the same day, at a late hour, in a large room of the

palace, panelled with dark oak, and lighted by a deep bay-
window filled with stained glass, beside a table covered
with books and papers, sat Cardinal Pole and Lord Priuli.
They were engaged in conversation. Pole wore his scarlet soutane
and lawn rochet, and had a red silk calotte on his head. Priuli was in
black velvet, which set off his noble figure to great advantage.
“An embassy is about to be dispatched in a few days to Rome,”
observed Pole. “It will consist of my nephew, Lord Montague, the
Bishop of Ely, and Sir Edward Carne. If you have any desire to return
to your beloved Italy, you can do so in their company. Do not let any
consideration for me weigh with you, I entreat. I am not without
misgiving that this chill climate, and, above all, the exhalations from
the marshes near the Palace, may be prejudicial to your health. I
need not say how greatly I shall miss you, but I shall be reconciled
to the deprivation by feeling that you are better off than with me.”
“If I can serve you by accompanying this embassy to Rome, I will
readily do so, dear friend,” rejoined Priuli; “but I have no desire to
return to Italy. It would be idle to say that I do not prefer sunshine
and an exhilarating atmosphere to a cold and brumous climate like
that of England. Undoubtedly, I would rather dwell in Rome than in
London, but, deprived of your society, Italy, with its blue sky and
noble monuments, would be a blank to me. I am happier here than I
should be at the Vatican without you. Say no more, therefore, to me
on that head, I beseech you. But you yourself may be compelled to
return to Rome. Not improbably you may be elected to the Pontifical
Throne!”
“Should it be so, I should decline the dignity,” replied the Cardinal.
“You, my good friend, who know my sentiments perfectly, are aware
that I have little ambition, and that all my exertions have been
directed to the welfare of our holy Church. This cause I can best
serve by remaining here, and I trust Heaven may spare me for the
complete fulfilment of my task. I do not delude myself with any false
hopes. I shall never behold Rome again, and it is from this
conviction that I would not hinder your return.”
“I will remain with you to the last,” rejoined Priuli. “My life is linked
with yours. Nothing but death can divide us.”
At this juncture an usher announced the Lord Chancellor, and the
next moment Gardiner entered the room. Both the Cardinal and
Priuli rose to receive him. After courteous but grave salutations had
passed between them, Gardiner remarked, “Your Eminence desires
to speak to me about those recusants who were yesterday
excommunicated by the ecclesiastical tribunal, and delivered to the
secular power. I may as well state at once that nothing can be
advanced in arrest of the judgment certain to be passed upon them.
They obstinately persisted in their heresy, and firmly refused to
subscribe to the doctrines of the Church.”
“I grieve to hear it,” replied Pole. “Yet I trust they will not be
severely dealt with.”
 “They will be dealt with as they deserve—they will be burnt at the
stake,” rejoined Gardiner.
“But not without time allowed them for reflection, I trust, my lord,”
said the Cardinal. “Undue severity will injure our cause rather than
serve it. These men will be accounted martyrs, and held up as an
example to others. Policy, therefore, would dictate milder measures.”
“Mild measures have been tried, and have proved ineffectual,”
rejoined Gardiner. “We must now make a terrible example of these
obstinate and dangerous heretics.”
Again the usher entered, and this time to inform the Cardinal that
their Majesties had arrived at the palace, and were already in the
courtyard. Hereupon Pole instantly arose, and followed by Priuli,
repaired to the ante-chamber. Scarcely had he entered it, when the
royal pair, preceded by Sir John Gage, and attended by several
officers of the court, appeared at the outer door. The Cardinal
immediately hurried forward to bid them welcome, and thank them
for the distinguished honour conferred upon him by the visit.
“Had I been aware of your coming, gracious Madam,” he said to
the Queen, “I would have been at the gate to receive you.”
“It is not a visit of ceremony,” replied Mary, “therefore we did not
deem it necessary to send intimation of our design. If your Eminence
is at leisure, the King and myself will gladly pass an hour in your
society, and profit by your counsels.”
“I am entirely at your Majesty’s disposal,” replied the Cardinal,
bowing. “I pray you enter. And you, too, Sire,” he added, conducting
them to the inner room.
Mary looked ill and languid, and moved slowly and with difficulty,
requiring the King’s support. But her illness being attributed to her
condition, occasioned no alarm.
On reaching the inner room, the Queen seated herself on a high,
carved oak chair proffered her by the Cardinal, while Philip occupied
a fauteuil on her left. As their Majesties would not allow the Cardinal
to remain standing, he took a seat on the other side of the Queen.
At a little distance from the royal pair stood Gardiner, Priuli, and Sir
John Gage. All the other attendants withdrew.
 “I did not expect to find you here, my lord,” the Queen observed
to Gardiner, after bowing to him and Priuli.
“I was sent for, gracious Madam,” replied the Lord Chancellor. “The
Cardinal desired to confer with me on an important matter
connected with the maintenance of the Established Church, in which
his Eminence and myself differ in opinion. In most matters I should
readily defer to his Eminence’s better judgment. But I cannot do so
in this instance. I am glad your Majesty has come, as I feel certain
you will support my views.”
“Whence arises this difference of opinion?” demanded Mary. “I
should have thought your lordship and the Cardinal must infallibly
agree on all points touching the welfare of the Church.”
“The question between us, gracious Madam,” said Pole, “is
whether, on the score of humanity and policy, it would not be better
to deal leniently rather than severely with those who profess
heretical opinions. I allude particularly to the ministers of the
Reformed Church who have just been excommunicated and
degraded, and delivered over to the secular power, and who, unless
mercy be shown them, will suffer a dreadful death.”
Mary’s brow darkened.
“Surely your Eminence would not pardon them if they persist in
their heresies?” she cried.
“I would not put them to death,” rejoined Pole, “but would
endeavour to convince them of their errors by argument and
instruction. Failing in this, I would resort to such measures as might
be deemed best adapted to meet the exigencies of the case—but
those measures should be tempered with mercy.”
“I did not expect such opinions as these from your Eminence,”
observed Mary. “The enemies of our faith must be destroyed, or they
will destroy us. A single diseased sheep will taint the whole flock. If
you have an unsound limb, the surgeon will tell you that for the
safety of the body it must be cut off. The preservation, therefore, of
the Catholic Church requires that these tares amidst the corn be
rooted up and cast into the fire.”
“These false brethren are seditious as well as heretical,” said Philip
sternly; “rebels against the Queen, and enemies to the Church. No
mercy ought to be shown them.”
“Your Eminence perceives that their Majesties are of my opinion,”
said Gardiner to the Cardinal. “But has not our Church deep wrongs
to avenge? Have we not suffered stripes and persecution from these
heretics when they were in power? Have not I myself been deprived
of my revenues, and imprisoned within the Tower, with the sentence
of death hanging over my head, for years, until happily released by
her Majesty?”
“At least, your life was spared,” observed Pole.
“It was spared more from fear than favour,” retorted Gardiner. “But
had King Edward lived another year, nay, a few months longer, I
should not have been here now to protest against leniency towards
such bitter enemies. One of the latest acts of Cranmer was to frame
a sanguinary code against the professors of the ancient faith, which
had it been put in force, would have been fraught with fearful
consequences; but ere that code became law, King Edward died, and
the weapon sharpened for our destruction fell from the maker’s
hands.”
“To strike off his own head,” cried Philip, fiercely. “Your Eminence
would scarcely extend your clemency to this arch-offender?” he
added to the Cardinal.
“I would pardon him, if he recanted,” replied Pole.
“What, pardon Cranmer, the apostate and heretic!” exclaimed
Gardiner. “Pardon him who betrayed and enslaved the Church of
which he ought to have been the protector!—who manifested the
most abject compliance with the will of his royal master, flattering his
passions, and humouring his caprices! Pardon him who shamefully
promoted and pronounced the divorce between the King and her
Majesty’s royal mother, casting thereby a blemish on their daughter!
Would you pardon him whose life has been one of dissimulation, and
who professed and practised what in his secret heart he disbelieved
and abhorred? Would you pardon a Reformer, who subscribed the
terrible Six Articles, though they were directed chiefly against his
own sect, and who would have subscribed any other articles
enjoined by his royal master—who on King Edward’s accession
declared himself in favour of the principles of Zuinglius and Calvin—
who abolished the ancient worship—attacked every article of our
Church—denied its traditions—stigmatised its rites—brought over
foreign sectaries, however anti-Christian their tenets, as Martin
Bucer, Paul Fagius, Peter Martyr, Ochinus, and others, procured them
churches, and recommended them to royal favour—and who filled
up the measure of his guilt by supporting the treasonable projects of
Northumberland, helping him to place a usurper on the throne, and
preaching against the rightful claims of our sovereign mistress?
Would you spare this hypocrite, this apostate, this heretic, this
double-dyed traitor?”
“His crimes are many and indefensible, but I would leave their
punishment to Heaven,” rejoined Pole.
“I could forgive him every injury he has done me, except the
divorce pronounced against my sainted mother,” said Mary, her
cheek flushing, and her eyes kindling as she spoke. “In pronouncing
that unjust sentence, he uttered his own condemnation. His fate is
sealed.”
“Why has the punishment he so richly merits been so long
delayed?” demanded Philip.
“His offences, Sire, are of so heinous a nature,” responded
Gardiner, “and so fraught with injury to our holy religion in its most
vital part, that it has been necessary to refer them to that supreme
tribunal before which such inquests can only properly be held. His
case has been laid before the Pope, who has appointed the Bishop
of Gloucester and a commission to try him. On their report,
judgment will be pronounced in solemn consistory by his Holiness.
What that judgment will be, cannot for a moment be doubted.
Cranmer will be excommunicated and anathematised, deprived of
the archbishopric of Canterbury, and of all ecclesiastical privileges.
Furthermore he will be degraded and delivered to the secular power,
and your Majesties will be required by his Holiness to proceed
towards him as the law directs.”
“For his offences the law prescribes death by fire, and by that
death he shall die,” said Mary.
“Alas, that it should be so!” muttered Pole. “When will the true
spirit of the Gospel, which inculcates toleration, charity, and
forgiveness of injuries, be understood, and its principles practised? I
would make a last appeal to your Majesties in behalf of those
unfortunates,” he added to the Queen.
Before replying, Mary consulted the King by a look. His stern
expression of countenance confirmed her.
“It is in vain,” she replied. “My heart is steeled against them.”
 CHAPTER V.
BISHOP BONNER.

hortly afterwards, the Bishop of London was announced by

the usher. A brief preliminary description of this remarkable
prelate may be necessary.
Edmond Bonner, Bishop of London, whose severity
towards the Protestants has caused his memory to be justly
detested, was by no means the savage-looking or repulsive
personage generally supposed. Of middle height, stout, and of fresh
complexion, he had rather a jovial countenance, being fond of good
cheer, and his features, except when inflamed by passion, as they
not unfrequently were, had a pleasant expression. But he was
exceedingly hot-tempered, and when excited, lost all control of
himself, and became perfectly furious. Neither did his anger, though
easily roused, quickly subside. In some respects he resembled his
royal master, Henry VIII. His disposition was cruel and vindictive,
and he never forgot or forgave an injury. To the Reformers, whom
he bitterly hated, he proved, as is well known, a terrible scourge.
Born towards the close of the 15th century, Bonner was now near
upon sixty, but though he had undergone many hardships, and had
endured more than four years’ imprisonment in the Marshalsea, his
spirit was unbroken, and his health unimpaired. During his long
captivity he had been supported by the conviction that the ancient
worship would be restored, and his enemies be delivered into his
hands. What he had hoped for, and prayed for, having come to pass,
he promised himself ample compensation for the afflictions he had
endured. Learned and acute, Bonner had early attracted the
attention of Wolsey, by whom he was much employed; and being
subsequently appointed chaplain to Henry VIII., he rose rapidly in
favour, as he accommodated himself without scruple to the King’s
caprices. Instrumental in furthering the divorce with Katherine of
Aragon, Bonner co-operated in the religious changes accomplished
by his royal master, and was also entrusted by him with several
missions of great delicacy, which he fulfilled very satisfactorily,
rendering himself altogether so useful, and continuing so
subservient, that, though often rebuffed by the monarch—as who
was not?—he never entirely lost his good graces.
But when Edward VI. mounted the throne, all was changed.
Opposed to the Reformation, though he did not dare openly to
manifest his hostility to it, Bonner was regarded with suspicion and
dislike by the chiefs of the Protestant party, who determined upon
his overthrow. Cited before an ecclesiastical commission, of which
Cranmer was the head, notwithstanding an energetic defence,
appeals to the King against the illegality of the tribunal, and the
injustice of his sentence, Bonner, at that time Bishop of London, was
deprived of his see and benefices, and imprisoned in the Marshalsea,
whence he was only liberated on Mary’s accession. Restored to his
diocese, and reinstated in power, he burned to avenge himself on his
enemies, chief amongst whom he reckoned Cranmer, Ridley, and
Latimer. But now that they were safe in prison, he was content to
wait. The cup of vengeance was too sweet to be hastily drained.
Bonner’s appearance at this juncture was hailed with satisfaction
by Gardiner, who could count upon his support against Pole, and he
therefore remarked, after the bishop had made his obeisance to
their Majesties, “My associate in the ecclesiastical commission
concurs with me that no mercy whatever should be shown to
heretics.”
 “Mercy to heretics!” exclaimed Bonner, surprised. “It were
mistaken clemency to spare such dangerous offenders. Rigorous
measures will alone check the spread of the pestilence by which
your kingdom is unhappily affected, gracious Madam,” he added to
the Queen. “Now is the time to strike terror into the hearts of these
false brethren—to exterminate them by fire and sword.”
“The Lord Cardinal does not think so,” rejoined Mary. “He is of
opinion that those convicted of heretical pravity should be leniently
dealt with.”
“You amaze me, Madam,” cried Bonner.
“The object your Majesty has in view,” said Pole, “being to bring
back those who have strayed from the paths of truth, and not to
drive them yet further off, gentleness, and not force, should be
employed. By severity you will increase the evil instead of curing it.
Fear will make hypocrites, not converts.”
“No matter,” cried Bonner. “Let the sacramentarians conform
outwardly. We care not to search their hearts. Enough for us if they
profess themselves Catholics.”
“I grieve to hear you say so, my lord,” rejoined the Cardinal. “It is
better to have an open enemy than a false friend. Our Church does
not desire to encourage dissimulation, put to eradicate error and
schism. I beseech your Majesty to pause before you proceed further
in a course which I foresee is fraught with danger. Hitherto, all has
gone well. Your enemies are confounded. Your people are loving and
loyal, willing to make any sacrifices for you, save those of
conscience. The faith of your forefathers is restored in its integrity.
Your kingdom is reconciled to the Holy See. Is this an opportune
moment for persecution? Would you sully the snowy banner of the
Church with blood? Would you destroy a tithe of your subjects by
fire and sword—by burning and massacre? Yet this must be done if
persecution once commences. Such means of conversion are as
unwarrantable as impolitic—contrary to the will of Heaven, and likely
to provoke its wrath. I defy the advocates of severity towards
heretics to produce a single passage from the Gospel that would
authorise Christians to burn their fellow-men for questions purely of
conscience. As, therefore, such rigour cannot be sustained by appeal
to Holy Writ, neither can it be upheld by any other consideration. It
will increase the evil complained of, rather than mitigate it.”
“Your Eminence forgets how much we have suffered from the
Reformers,” remarked Bonner.
“If they have done ill, ought we to imitate them in ill-doing?”
rejoined Pole. “Let us prove to them that we are better Christians
than they are. Your Majesty may trust me, that the true way to
convert the Protestants is to reform our own clergy, whose ill-
regulated conduct has led to heresy and backsliding. Better this
remedy than the stake.”
“All this shall to the Pope,” observed Gardiner, in a low tone, to
Bonner. “His Eminence will be speedily recalled.”
“It is high time he should be recalled, if he entertains these
opinions,” rejoined the other, in the same tone.
“Nothing that has been urged will shake my purpose,” said Mary.
“I will free my kingdom from the curse that has so long afflicted it,
even though I inundate the land with blood. But I agree with your
Eminence that much reform is needful in our own clergy, whose
manners provoke scandal, and encourage infidelity. I will address
myself to the task. To you, my Lord Chancellor, and to you, my Lord
Bishop,” she added to Gardiner and Bonner, “I commit the
extirpation of heresy. Relax not in your efforts.”
“Rest assured we will not, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner.
“Your Eminence seems to think,” observed Bonner to the Cardinal,
“that the Lord Chancellor and myself have not used proper means of
weaning back these misguided men from their errors. As there are
two prisoners confined within the Lollards’ Tower for religious
offences, may I venture to inquire whether you have succeeded in
accomplishing their conversion?”
“Not as yet,” replied Pole; “but I do not despair of ultimate
success.”
“What prisoners do you refer to?” demanded Mary. “I have not
heard of them.”
The Cardinal was about to reply, when a look from the King
stopped him.
 “Who are they, I repeat?” cried Mary, somewhat sharply, surprised
at Pole’s disinclination to answer.
“One of them is the unhappy Constance Tyrrell, and the other the
half-crazed fanatic, Derrick Carver,” replied the Cardinal.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mary. “Was your Majesty aware that these
persons are confined here?” she added to the King.
“They were sent hither by my orders,” rejoined Philip, coldly.
“And why was I not informed of the matter?” asked Mary.
“Because I did not deem it needful,” replied the King.
“Not needful!” exclaimed Mary. “By my soul, but it was needful!
’Twas a strange step to take without my knowledge or privity.”
“You heat yourself unnecessarily, Madam,” interrupted Philip.
“’Twas to spare you annoyance that I kept the matter secret from
you.”
“How so?” demanded Mary. “The unaccountable disappearance of
this girl troubled me, as you know, and Carver’s supposed escape
was equally displeasing to me.”
“You would have been informed of all in good time,” said Philip.
“How I discovered their hiding-place, and why I sent them hither,
shall be explained anon.”
“I trust the explanation will prove satisfactory,” replied Mary.
“Meantime, I will see the prisoners myself, and interrogate them.”
“Shall they be brought before you?” inquired Pole.
“No,” returned the Queen; “I will proceed to the Lollards’ Tower.
Your Eminence will attend me thither.”
“’Twere better not, Madam,” said Philip. “Be ruled by me, and let
alone this visit.”
“You have some motive,” rejoined Mary, in a low tone—“some
powerful motive for wishing me not to see Constance Tyrrell. I will
see her. I will question her. I will learn the truth.”
“Well, then, learn the truth, Madam,” said Philip. “If you are
pained by it, it is not my fault.”
“You have deceived me,” continued Mary—“shamefully deceived
me. Of that I am convinced.”
“Reserve these remarks for a more fitting opportunity, Madam,”
said the King. “Since you are bent upon going to the Lollards’ Tower,
I will not interfere to prevent you. But at least put some guard upon
yourself, and breed not scandal by your causeless suspicions.”
Without making any reply, Mary arose. The King offered his arm,
but she rejected it, saying she needed not support. Philip, however,
was determined to accompany her, and they went forth together,
attended by the Cardinal. No one else ventured to follow them, and
Gardiner and Bonner, fearing the King might be offended with them,
thought it best to retreat, and hastily quitted the palace.
 CHAPTER VI.
HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL WAS BROUGHT BEFORE THE
QUEEN IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.

receded by Rodomont Bittern and others of the guard, and

attended by the Cardinal, their Majesties crossed the court
to the Lollards’ Tower. As the Queen was slowly ascending
the steps leading to the entrance, a sudden faintness
seized her, and she paused.
“Better turn back, gracious Madam, if you feel ill,” observed the
Cardinal, noticing her extreme paleness.
“No, it will pass in a moment,” she replied.
Resolved not to give way, she went on; but the effort was too
much for her, and she had no sooner gained the Post Room than she
sank on a chair completely exhausted.
“What place is this?” she asked, in a feeble voice, and glancing
around.
“It is called the Post Room, Madam, from that wooden pillar in the
centre,” replied Pole.
“It looks like a torture-chamber,” observed Philip.
 “It has been put to a similar purpose, I fear,” said the Cardinal.
“Yon pillar has not served merely to support the roof.”
“Where is Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Mary.
“In the prison-chamber overhead,” replied Pole. “The staircase is
steep and difficult. ’Twould be hazardous to your Majesty to mount
it.”
“Let her be brought down,” said the Queen.
Upon this, Rodomont Bittern, who, with Simon Mallet, keeper of
the tower, stood waiting for orders, immediately disappeared
through an arched doorway at the further end of the sombre
apartment. Shortly afterwards they returned, bringing with them
Constance Tyrrell. This done, they retired.
Constance looked thin and pale, but her colour heightened as she
beheld Philip seated near the Queen. The blush, however, quickly
faded away, and was succeeded by a death-like pallor, but she did
not lose her self-possession. Advancing towards her, the Cardinal
said, in a low tone,—
“Kneel to her Majesty. Peradventure, you may move her
compassion.”
Constance did as she was bidden, and threw herself at the
Queen’s feet, crying,—
“If I have offended your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness.”
“What have I to forgive you, minion?—what have you done?” said
Mary, fixing a searching look upon her. “I know nothing of your
proceedings since you fled from Hampton Court. Where have you
hidden yourself? Why were you brought here? Speak!”
“It is a long story to tell, Madam,” cried Constance, troubled by
the stern gaze of the King.
“On peril of your life, I command you to conceal nothing from
me!” cried Mary, with a burst of uncontrollable fury. “Confess your
guilt, or I will wrest the avowal of it from you by torture. Speak out,
and you have nothing to fear—but hesitate, equivocate, palter with
me, and you are lost.”
“As I hope for salvation, Madam,” rejoined Constance, “I have
nothing to confess.”
 “It is false!” cried the Queen, with increasing fury. “I read your
guilt in your looks. You cannot regard me in the face, and declare
you have not injured me.”
“I can look Heaven itself in the face, and declare I am innocent of
all offence towards your Majesty,” rejoined Constance.
“The King, no doubt, will confirm your assertions,” observed Mary,
bitterly.
“If I did not, I should belie the truth,” replied Philip.
“By whose contrivance did you fly from Hampton Court?”
demanded Mary.
“Not by the King’s, Madam. I fled with Osbert Clinton.”
“Tut! Osbert Clinton was merely a tool,” exclaimed Mary,
incredulously. “Did his Majesty know of your hiding-place?”
“Assuredly not, Madam,” replied Constance. “He it was I dreaded
most.”
“Ha! we are coming to it now,” cried Mary. “Why did you dread
him?”
“Nay, Madam, persist not in these inquiries, I entreat you,”
interposed the Cardinal. “You will gain nothing by them, and will only
torture yourself.”
“Though each word should wound me to the quick, I will have it,”
said Mary. “Why did you fear the King?”
“Oh! bid me not answer that question, Madam—I cannot do it.”
“I will answer it for you,” said Mary. “Contradict me if you can. You
thought that the King loved you, and would pursue you.”
“If she believed so, her flight was justifiable, and merits not
reproach from your Majesty,” observed the Cardinal. “Pardon me if I
say you are unjust towards this maiden. I am satisfied you have no
real ground of complaint against her.”
“At least, she has been the cause of much trouble to me,” cried
Mary.
“The innocent cause,” said Pole.
“Ay, truly so,” said Constance. “I have never wronged your Majesty
in act or thought. Beset by dangers, I fled from them, and, if I did
wrong, it was from error in judgment, and not from ill intent. Had I
stayed——But I will not dwell upon what might have happened. Your
Majesty’s reproaches cut me to the soul. I do not deserve them.
Rather, indeed, am I an object of pity than reproach. Six months ago
I was happy. My life was unclouded—but a change came suddenly,
and since then all has been darkness and misery.”
“You could not expect happiness, since you have fallen from your
faith,” said the Queen, severely. “You have justly provoked the wrath
of Heaven, and cannot wonder that you have felt the effects of its
displeasure. From what you have said, and from what his Eminence
has urged in your behalf, I do not believe you have been culpable
towards me. But you have cost me many a pang,” she added,
placing her hand upon her breast.
“Yield to the pitying emotions which I can see sway your breast,
gracious Madam,” interceded Pole, “and forgive her.”
“For the affliction she has caused I do forgive her,” replied the
Queen, with an effort; “but if her conduct towards myself is free
from blame, as you represent it, in other respects it is reprehensible.
She was nurtured in the true faith, and was once a model of piety—
nay, even contemplated devoting herself to a religious life. But she
has listened to the baneful exhortations of one of these teachers of
heresy, and has become a proselyte to the new doctrines. What shall
be done with her?”
“Leave her to me, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “I do not
despair of accomplishing her cure. My hand shall lead you back,” he
added to Constance. “My voice shall direct you. It cannot be that
one of a devout nature like yourself, imbued from childhood in the
principles of our Holy Church, familiar with its rites and worship, can
efface its doctrines from your breast, and abandon them for another
creed. Your conscience must be troubled. The sure way to regain
serenity is to abjure your errors.”
“Time was when every word uttered by your Eminence would
have found a response in my breast,” rejoined Constance. “But the
rites I formerly practised seem to me idolatrous, and the doctrines
then taught me unwarranted by the Gospel. I cannot go back to the
faith of Rome.”
“You shall be forced back, Mistress, if you continue perverse,”
cried the Queen, sharply.
 “Hold, Madam!” exclaimed Pole. “In this instance let me have my
way. I would win back this maiden by gentleness, and not by
coercion. I would appeal to her reason and judgment, and not to her
fears. Her cure may be the work of time, because the disorder under
which she labours is obstinate, but I do not think it will baffle my
skill.”
“If I could be persuaded by anyone to return to the faith I have
abjured, it would be by your Eminence,” said Constance, yielding to
the kindly influence of his manner.
“You see, Madam, I have already made some little impression,”
observed Pole to the Queen. “Mildness is more efficacious than
violence. As she was enticed from the fold, so must she be lured
back to it.”
“Well, have your way with her,” replied Mary. “Where is the other
prisoner, Derrick Carver?”
“In a dungeon beneath this room,” replied Pole. “He was placed
there in order that no communication should take place between him
and Constance Tyrrell. They have not seen each other since they
were brought to the Lollards’ Tower.”
“Such were my orders,” observed Philip.
“It is well,” rejoined the Queen. “They shall see each other now.
Let him be brought before me.”
 CHAPTER VII.
AN ACCUSER.

n being brought into the room by Rodomont and Mallet,

Derrick Carver made a profound reverence to the Queen,
but none to Philip and the Cardinal. Then addressing
himself to Constance, he said, “Welcome, daughter! is the
time come for our deliverance from bondage?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“How long, O Lord! wilt thou suffer thy saints to be persecuted?”
exclaimed the enthusiast. “It would be glad tidings to me to learn
that the end of my weary pilgrimage was near at hand.”
“Are you prepared to meet the death you seem to covet?” asked
Pole.
“I trust so,” replied Carver. “I have prayed long and deeply.”
“And repented of your sins—of your murtherous designs against
the life of his Majesty?” pursued Pole.
“I do not regard that design as sinful,” said Carver. “Repentance,
therefore, is uncalled for.”
 “And you believe yourself to be religious, mistaken man,” rejoined
Pole. “I tell you, if you die in this impenitent state, you will perish
everlastingly. You are so blinded by pride and vain-glory that you
cannot discern evil from good, and persuade yourself that you are
actuated by high and noble motives, when in reality your motives
are sinful and damnable. You are nothing more than an execrable
assassin; so hardened in guilt that your heart is inaccessible to
virtuous and honourable feelings. True religion you have none. You
profess to believe in the tenets of the Gospel, yet practise them not.
Our blessed Saviour would never number you among his followers,
but would cast you off as an unprofitable and faithless servant. You
reject truths you do not understand, treat sacred rites as
superstitious, and revile those who differ from you in opinion. Go to!
you ask for death, and yet you are unfit to die.”
“It is not for you to pass sentence upon me,” said Carver. “Heaven,
to whom my secret motives are known, will judge me.”
“And condemn you, if you repent not,” said Pole, “for your soul is
charged with heavy offences. As I am informed by those who have
heard you, you have prayed for her Majesty’s destruction.”
“I have prayed Heaven to touch her heart, so as to cause her to
abandon idolatry, or to abridge her days,” rejoined Carver. “Better
she be removed than false gods be set up in our temples.”
“And know you not that by giving utterance to such a prayer you
incur the doom of a traitor?” said Pole. “Your offences are so rank
and monstrous, that unless you exhibit some penitence, I cannot
intercede in your behalf with her Majesty.”
“I ask for no grace from her, and expect none,” replied Carver.
“Had I twenty lives, I would lay them down for my religion and for
my country. We have been delivered to a foreign yoke. But it will not
bind us long.”
“Peace!” cried Rodomont. “Knowest thou not that thou art in the
presence of the King?”
“I know it well, and therefore I speak out,” rejoined Carver. “I tell
this proud Prince of Spain that England will never submit to his
hateful and tyrannous rule. The country will rise up against him, and
cast him off. He persuades himself that a son will be born to him,
and that through that son he will govern. But he is puffed up with
vain hopes. Heaven will refuse him issue.”
“Ha! this passes all endurance,” cried Philip.
“Have I touched thee, tyrant?” pursued Carver, exultingly.
“Heaven, I repeat, will refuse thee issue. The support on which thou
countest will be taken from thee. Didst thou dare make the attempt,
the accursed Inquisition would at this moment be established
amongst us. Thou hast it in reserve for a future day, but ere that day
arrives thy perfidy will be discovered. False to thy oaths, faithless to
thy Queen, treacherous to all, thou shalt meet thy just reward.”
“Faithless to me!” exclaimed Mary. “What wouldst thou dare
insinuate, thou foul-mouthed villain?”
“That which I will dare maintain,” rejoined Carver—“that the
consort you have chosen and have placed on the throne beside you
is false to his marriage vows.”
“Away with him!” cried Philip, furiously.
“Stay!” exclaimed Mary. “I would question him further.”
“Forbear, I beseech you, Madam,” interposed Pole. “You only give
him power to level his poisonous shafts against you.”
“His tongue ought to be torn from his throat for giving utterance
to the lies his black heart has conceived!” cried Philip.
“My tongue has uttered no lies,” said Carver. “I have shown the
Queen how she has been deceived.”
“Thou hast simply proved thine own wickedness and malevolence,”
said Pole. “Her Majesty despises thy slander.”
“But it cannot pass unpunished.” said Philip. “Let the false villain
instantly retract the calumnies he has uttered, or he shall be tied to
yon post and scourged till he shall confess himself a liar and a
slanderer. Let him be forced to recite the prayer for her Majesty’s
safe deliverance, on pain of further torture. And, until he manifest
contrition for his offences, let his chastisement be daily repeated.”
“I will do none of these things,” rejoined Carver, resolutely.
“Scourge me to death, and I will not retract a single word I have
uttered. I will not pray that the Queen, whom thou hast deceived
and wronged, may bear thee a son, and so confirm thine authority.
But I will pray to the last that my country may be delivered from
oppression, that the Papal power may be overthrown, and the
Protestant religion be re-established.”
“Thy resolution shall be tested,” said Philip.
“Your Majesty is justly incensed against this miserable man,” said
Pole to the King. “Yet would I step between him and your anger, and
entreat you to spare him the chastisement you have ordered to be
inflicted upon him. I do not seek to extenuate his offences, they are
many and heinous, and he must bear their punishment. But spare
him additional suffering. Spare him the scourge and the rack.”
“I will spare him nothing unless he retract,” replied Philip, sternly.
“I would accept no grace procured by thee,” said Carver to Pole.
“As the representative of Antichrist, I regard thee with loathing and
detestation, and will take nothing from thee.”
“Were not thy mind distraught, thou couldst have no antipathy to
one who would befriend thee,” replied the Cardinal. “My religion
teaches me to bless those that curse us, to pray for them that use
us despitefully. Be assured I shall not forget thee in my prayers.”
Carver regarded him steadily, but made no answer.
“I shall pray that thy heart may be softened,” pursued Pole, “that
thou mayst understand thy sinfulness, and truly repent of it ere it be
too late. Once more I beseech your Majesty to spare him the
torture.”
“Be it as you will. I can refuse your Eminence nothing,” replied
Philip.
“This is all the revenge I would take,” said Pole, turning to Carver.
“You have declared that you hate me—that you regard me as the
representative of Antichrist. You profess yourself to be a believer in
the Gospel. My practice is, at least, more conformable to its precepts
than yours.”
Carver made no reply, but his lip slightly quivered.
“Miserable man,” continued Pole, looking at him compassionately,
“I pity you, and would save you if I could. I see the struggle going
on in your breast. Wrestle with the demon who would gain the
mastery over your soul, and cast him from you. Pride stifles the
better emotions of your heart. Do not restrain them.”
 “If I listen to him much longer, my resolution will fail me,”
murmured Carver. “I cannot resist his influence.”
“Ere long you will be in a better frame of mind,” continued Pole,
“and more accessible to the arguments I would employ.”
“Think it not,” interrupted Carver, at once recovering his sternness.
“You will never convert me to Popery and idolatry.”
“I may at least make you sensible of your errors, and lead you to
repentance,” said Pole. “The rest lies with Heaven.”
“He shall remain in your Eminence’s charge during a short space,”
said Mary, “in the hope that you may be able to bring him to a full
sense of his enormities, and prepare him for his end. His life is
forfeited.”
“So the death to which I am doomed be the same as that
wherewith the staunchest adherents of our faith are menaced, I am
content,” said Carver.
“Thou shall have thy wish,” rejoined Mary. “Thy death shall be by
fire.”
“Then I shall gain my crown of martyrdom,” cried Carver,
exultingly.
“Fire will not purge out your sins,” said the Cardinal. “Those will
cling to the soul, which is indestructible. Therefore repent.”
“And speedily,” added Mary, “for thy time is short.”
Hereupon her Majesty arose, and, quitting the Post Room,
proceeded to the chapel, to which, as we have previously intimated,
there was access from the lower part of the Lollards’ Tower.
Here mass was performed, and, by the Queen’s express orders,
both Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver were brought into the
chapel during the service. At its close they were taken to the cells,
while the royal pair proceeded with the Cardinal to the banquetting
chamber, where a collation was prepared.
The Queen, however, declined to partake of the repast, saying she
felt faint and ill, and two ladies who had accompanied her to the
palace being hastily summoned, she retired with them.
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