But Constance’s thoughts were with the martyr in Smithfield, and the appalling scene seemed to be passing before her eyes. Suddenly she shrieked out, “The fire is kindled. I can see the red reflection of the flames through yonder windows. Oh, it is horrible. Would I were back with the good Cardinal!”
“Would you were!” ejaculated Osbert. “But I fear you will never behold him more. The King will be here presently, and will require an answer. What will you say to him?”
“Say! What shall I say?” cried Constance, bewildered.
“Ask me not,” rejoined Osbert, in a sombre voice. “Take this dagger,” he added, placing a poignard in her hand. “Conceal it about your person. You may need it.”
“This dagger!” she cried, regarding the weapon. “What am I to do with it?”
“Should the worst befall, plunge it in the King’s heart, or your own,” he rejoined.
“I cannot,” she replied, letting the poignard fall upon the pavement. “I will not commit a crime that would doom me to perdition. Were I, in a moment of desperation, to do as you suggest, all hope of our reunion in a better world would be over. Then, indeed, I should be lost to you for ever.”
“But this inexorable demon will be here anon,” cried Osbert, picking up the dagger. “The thought drives me mad. Would that these strong walls would crack asunder to let us pass, or the floor yawn and swallow us up. Anything to avoid him.”
“Fresh shouts! more light against yon windows! They are adding fuel to the fire!” cried Constance. “’Twill be over soon.”
“And then the King will come hither,” said Osbert. “Are you prepared for him?”