Her occupation of reading to the Queen was ended by the King’s return, so physically exhausted by violent nose-bleeding, so despondent at the universal desertion, and so broken-hearted at his daughter’s defection, that his wife was absorbed in attending upon him.
Anne began to watch for an opportunity to demand a dismissal, which she thought would exempt her from all blame, but she was surprised and a little dismayed by being summoned to the King in the Queen’s chamber. He was lying on a couch clad in a loose dressing-gown instead of his laced coat, and a red night-cap replacing his heavy peruke, and his face was as white and sallow as if he were recovering from a long illness.
“Little godchild,” he said, holding out his hand as Anne made her obeisance, “the Queen tells me you can read well. I have a fancy to hear.”
Immensely relieved at the kindness of his tone, Anne courtesied, and murmured out her willingness.
“Read this,” he said; “I would fain hear this; my father loved it. Here.”
Anne felt her task a hard one when the King pointed to the third Act of Shakespeare’s Richard II. She steeled herself and strengthened her voice as best she could, and struggled on till she came to—
“I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,
My figured goblets for a dish of wood,
My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff,
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave.”
There she fairly broke down, and sobbed.
“Little one, little one,” said James, you are sorry for poor Richard, eh?”
“Oh, sir!” was all she could say.