"He trusts me," repeated Charles, "and I do love him. He served me well, he was loyal ... our God help me!... my friend——"
He turned away to hide the uncontrollable tears, and, opening a drawer in the little Chinese cabinet, fumbled blindly among some papers and pulled out a letter.
"This is what he wrote me," he faltered. "I have never had one like him in my service.... Mary ... I cannot let him die."
He sank into a chair and, resting his elbow on the arm of it, dropped his face into his hand; the other held the letter of my lord written from the Tower.
The Queen had read this epistle; at the time it had moved her, but now that sensation of generous pity was dried up in the fierce desire to save her husband and herself from all the ruin a revolution threatened. She went up to the King and took the letter from his inert fingers, and, glancing over it, read aloud a passage—
"'Sir, my consent shall more acquit you herein to God, than all the world can do besides. To a willing man there is no injury done; and as by God's grace I forgive all the world with calmness and meekness of infinite contentment to my dislodging soul, so, sir, to you I can give the life of this world with all the cheerfulness imaginable, in the just acknowledgment of your exceeding favours.'—
"Hear!" added the Queen breathlessly, "the man himself does not ask nor expect this sacrifice of you——"
Charles interrupted.
"Because he is magnanimous, shall I be a slavish coward?"