| Queen Mary discovers the perfidy of the King. | |
| P. 155. | |
“I rejoice to hear it,” cried the King. “I dispatched Father Jerome to you, and I suppose his arguments prevailed?”
“No, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “I have been turned aside from my purpose by better arguments than any Father Jerome could employ.”
“Nay, I care not who dissuaded you,” replied Philip, “I am content with the resolution you have taken. I have been wretched—most wretched, since we parted, Constance.”
“Your Majesty cannot have been half so wretched as I have been,” she rejoined. “However, I have in some degree recovered my peace of mind, and I beseech you not to plunge me into misery again.”
“I must tell you how passionately I adore you,” exclaimed the King. “The love which you kindled in my breast when I first beheld you burns fiercer than ever, and cannot be extinguished. By my hopes of Paradise, fair Constance, I love you—only you.”
“Cease, Sire, cease!” cried Constance. “I cannot listen to you—I must not.”
“But you must—you shall listen to me,” cried Philip, still more passionately. “You shall hear how constantly I have thought of you. Your image has been ever before me. I have tried to stifle my love, but without success. It has mastered me, as it masters me now. Behold me at your feet, sweet Constance!” he added, prostrating himself before her; “not the King—but your suppliant—your slave!”
“Rise, Sire, I intreat you, from this unworthy posture,” cried Constance. “Think of your duty to the Queen—all your love should be given to her.”