“Where am I?” breathed she in a low tone.
Thomas Seymour pressed her hand to his lips. “You are with the most faithful and devoted of your servants, queen!”
“Queen!” This word roused her from her stupor, and caused her to raise herself half up.
“But where is my court? Where is the Princess Elizabeth? Where are all the eyes that heretofore watched me? Where are all the listeners and spies who accompany the queen?”
“They are far away from here,” said Seymour in a tone which betrayed his secret delight. “They are far away from here, and need at least an hour’s time to come up with us. An hour, queen! are you aware what that is to me? An hour of freedom, after two years of imprisonment! An hour of happiness, after two years of daily torture, daily endurance of the torments of hell!”
Catharine, who had at first smiled, had now become grave and sad.
Her eye rested on the cap which had fallen from her head and lay near her on the grass.
She pointed with trembling finger to the crown, and said softly, “Recognize you that sign, my lord?”
“I recognize it, my lady; but in this hour, I no longer shrink back at it. There are moments in which life is at its crowning point, and when one heeds not the abyss that threatens close beneath. Such an hour is the present. I am aware that this hour makes me guilty of high treason and may send me to the block; but nevertheless I will not be silent. The fire which burns in my breast consumes me. I must at length give it vent. My heart, that for years has burned upon a funeral pyre, and which is so strong that in the midst of its agonies it has still ever felt a sensation of its blessedness—my heart must at length find death or favor. You shall hear me, queen!”
“No, no,” said she, almost in anguish, “I will not, I cannot hear you! Remember that I am Henry the Eighth’s wife, and that it is dangerous to speak to her. Silence, then, earl, silence, and let us ride on.”