After a brief interval, but which appeared like an age to Constance, the door was again thrown open, and Philip entered the sacristy. To judge by his looks, no one would have supposed that he was fresh from the terrible spectacle he had just witnessed.
“One would think that burning must be pleasant to those tainted with heresy,” he observed. “The wretch who has just suffered for his contumely smiled as the pile was lighted. But it was not to speak of him that I came here, but of yourself, Constance. Have you reflected?”
“I did not need to reflect, Sire. My determination was instantly formed, and is unalterable.”
“You will regret it, Constance—bitterly regret it. Consider what you sacrifice—life, and all that can render life attractive—for a solitary cell, and a fiery death in Smithfield.”
“I require no consideration, Sire. I choose the dungeon and the stake.”
“Yet a moment,” urged Philip. “Bishop Bonner is without, but I am unwilling to summon him.”
“Do not hesitate, Sire. I have said that my determination is unalterable.”
After regarding her stedfastly for a few moments, and perceiving that she manifested no symptoms of relenting, Philip moved slowly towards the door, and, on reaching it, paused, and again looked at her fixedly. But, as she still continued firm, he summoned Bonner, who immediately afterwards entered with Father Alfonso. The bishop’s features were flushed with triumph, but the Spanish friar appeared grave and sad, and his cheeks were almost livid in hue.
“Here is another obstinate heretic for you, my lord,” said the King, pointing to Constance. “Take her, and see what you can do with her.”