Seating himself at the table, on which writing materials were placed, Philip took a paper from his doublet and proceeded to sign it. Just as he was about to consign the warrant to Rodomont, Constance, who had appeared transfixed with terror, rushed forward and threw herself at his feet.

“Have mercy on him, Sire!” she cried. “Full well I know what will be his fate if sent to the Tower. Oh spare him! spare him!”

“I cannot listen to your entreaties,” rejoined Philip, coldly. “He has been guilty of high treason, and must pay the penalty of his offence.”

“Do not intercede for me, Constance,” said Osbert. “It is useless; he has no pity in his nature.”

“I have none for those who deceive me,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Take him hence, Sir,” he added to Rodomont. “Here is your warrant.”

“Oh no! let him not go thus!” shrieked Constance, starting to her feet, and falling into her lover’s arms, “You will not separate us, Sire?”

“Wherefore not?” demanded Philip. “Is he your husband?”

“Ay, in the eyes of Heaven. I am affianced to him,” she replied.

“Even were you wedded to him you could not accompany him,” rejoined the King. “But no marriage will ever take place between you. Bid him a lasting farewell. You will meet no more on earth.”

“No more! You cannot mean it, Sire. Oh, unsay those terrible words!” shrieked Constance.