“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”
“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or [[520]]look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”
“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”
“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.
“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.
“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.
“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”
“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”
“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.