“Mercy, sire, mercy!”
The king stepped back in astonishment, and turned upon the bold speaker a look almost of amazement.
“Thomas Seymour!” said he. “Thomas, you have returned, then, and your first act is again an indiscretion and a piece of foolhardy rashness?”
The young man smiled. “I have returned,” said he, “that is to say, I have had a sea-fight with the Scots and taken from them four men-of-war. With these I hastened hither to present them to you, my king and lord, as a wedding-gift, and just as I entered the anteroom I heard your voice pronouncing a sentence of death. Was it not natural, then, that I, who bring you tidings of a victory, should have the heart to utter a prayer for mercy, for which, as it seems, none of these noble and proud cavaliers could summon up courage?”
“Ah!” said the king, evidently relieved and fetching a deep breath, “then you knew not at all for whom and for what you were imploring pardon?”
“Yet!” said the young man, and his bold glance ran with an expression of contempt over the whole assembly—“yet, I saw at once who the condemned must be, for I saw this young maiden forsaken by all as if stricken by the plague, standing alone in the midst of this exalted and brave company. And you well know, my noble king, that at court one recognizes the condemned and those fallen into disgrace by this, that every one flies from them, and nobody has the courage to touch such a leper even with the tip of his finger!”
King Henry smiled. “Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley, you are now, as ever, imprudent and hasty,” said he. “You beg for mercy without once knowing whether she for whom you beg it is worthy of mercy.”
“But I see that she is a woman,” said the intrepid young earl. “And a woman is always worthy of mercy, and it becomes every knight to come forward as her defender, were it but to pay homage to her sex, so fair and so frail, and yet so noble and mighty. Therefore I beg mercy for this young maiden!”
Catharine had listened to the young earl with throbbing heart and flushed cheeks. It was the first time that she had seen him, and yet she felt for him a warm sympathy, an almost tender anxiety.
“He will plunge himself into ruin,” murmured she; “he will not save Anne, but will make himself unhappy. My God, my God, have a little compassion and pity on my anguish!”