66 Truly," she owned, letting a soft, regretful sigh escape, "it would have been the safer. No one would ever suspect me of taking such a lover. . . . But it would have been a hard price for safety," and her flouting laughter burst out at him. He flung her a venomous look and turned to the door. “Laugh on," he jeered. "You have not so long a time to hear that voice of thine!" "No? It is to be silenced, then? . . . And to think it will have to go without having once said any of those sweet things you have so urged on it to say! Never once a yes, from me, dear Nicholas! Never aught but floutings! It is very sad, is it not?" "By God!" he choked out, "I'd like to behead you with these hands!" "Fie! I would ne'er let you as near me as that." She was facing him with her hands clasped negligently behind her head, her beautiful figure was drawn. up to its full height. It was a pose of insolent, studied disdain; an unconquerable mockery curled her lips, and glowed in the bright darkness of her eyes. She had forgotten the fears of life and death; she was answering with oblivious passion to the one demand upon her for courage and contempt. It was superb; a bitter admiration stabbed Carewe as he saw that even in that hour of his triumph her spirit was as unsurrendered to him. as that body he had so long coveted. He suffered, and he suffered with an anguish compounded of all the venom of his nature. He could gloat ghoulishly upon her danger, he had plotted and connived at her death, but he had never wanted her as now when she was escaping him forever. ว CHAPTER XXXI A LETTER AND TWO SONGS 'HE chamber of state was in darkness save for the candles on the table where Anne sat writing. In the shadow-hidden pallet at the foot of the immense bed her two jailers had fallen into slumber and their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room except the occasional scratching drive of Anne's quill. The letter was to her husband. She wrote: "Your Grace's anger and my imprisonment are things so strange unto me, as what to write or what to excuse I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you sent unto me (willing me to confess a truth and so obtain favor) by such an one as you know to be mine ancient, professed enemy; I no sooner received this message by him than I rightly conceived your meaning; and if, as you say, confessing a truth may indeed procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty perform your command. "But let not your Grace ever imagine that your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And, to speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Boleyn, with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself, if God and your Grace's pleasure had been so pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation or received Queenship, but that I always looked for such an alteration as now I find; for, the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your Grace's fancy, the least alteration, I knew, was well and sufficient to draw that fancy to some other subject. You have chosen me, from a low estate, to be your queen and companion, far beyond my desert or desire. If then you found me worthy of such honor, good your Grace, let not any light fancy or bad counsel of my enemies withdraw your princely favor from me; neither let that stain, that unworthy stain of a disloyal heart toward your good Grace, ever cast so foul a blot on your most dutiful wife and the infant princess, your daughter. Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges; yes, let me receive an open trial for my truth shall fear no open shame; then shall you see, either mine innocency cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that, whatsoever God or you may determine of me, your Grace may be freed from an open censure; and mine offense being lawfully proved. Your Grace is at liberty — both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me as an unlawful wife, but to follow your affection, already settled for that party, for whose sake I now am as I am, whose name I could some good while since have pointed unto; your Grace being not ignorant of my suspicion therein." She paused, her breast rising and falling with the passionate breath. Then, her eyes shining with undaunted courage she went on: 66 But, if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander must bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness; then I desire of God, that he will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, the instruments thereof; and that he will not call you to a strict account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear, and in whose judgment, I doubt not (whatever the world may think of me), mine innocence shall be openly known, and sufficiently cleared." Again she paused and the light died out of her eyes and they filled with a look of unutterable pain. Her hand trembled on this last paragraph. My last and only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of your Grace's displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, who (as I understand), are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I have found favor in your sight; if ever the name of Anne Boleyn hath been pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this request; and I will so leave not to trouble your Grace any further; with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your Grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions, "Your most loving and ever faithful wife, "ANNE BOLEYN. "From my doleful prison in the Tower, this sixth of May." The quill slipped from her fingers and she sat silent, in bitter meditation. Slowly she grew aware of the plaintive strains of a lute that were floating softly down to her through the night air from some open window. She knew the melody and Wyatt's manner of playing, and her thoughts went pitifully up to him as he played there in the dark. She felt a sudden wistful craving to see him, to speak to him and say those kind things which she had never said. She stole to the window and knelt there resting her cheek on the cold ledge as she listened. He had composed that very melody for some verses that he had written her and she repeated them silently to herself now as the sad cadences sank about her. My lute awake! perform the last The end that I have now begun; The candles flickered and went out as she knelt there, sad beyond all words and yet faintly comforted by that sweet music falling from one whose thoughts must be of her... Suddenly the delicate strains were lost in a noisy outbreak of song from directly beneath her window, and rising, she looked down on a chain of gayly-lighted barges moving over the dark surface of the river, filled with hilarious revelers. She pressed her face against the bars trying to distinguish the figures in the flare of the torches; through the music she heard loud voices and roistering shouts from one barge to another. Drink, drink, the canakin clink Lady Boleyn and Mrs. Coseyns roused. "Rest you, ladies," said Anne, stepping back from the |