“Oh, Sire, you overwhelm me with gratitude!” cried Constance. “Happiness, so long a stranger to me, begins to smile on me again.”
“On his return, it will be for your Eminence to complete the work by bestowing upon him the hand of your ward,” said Philip to the Cardinal.
“And at the same time I shall surrender the fortune which I hold in trust for her,” said Pole.
“Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” said Philip to the Lieutenant of the Tower, whose looks manifested the lively interest he took in what was passing, “you will return to the Tower, not with a death-warrant, but with an order for Osbert’s immediate liberation.”
“Here it is, Sir Henry,” said Mary, tracing a few lines on a sheet of paper, and giving it to Bedingfeld. “Tell him that he has our full pardon.”
“I shall not fail, gracious Madam,” rejoined the Lieutenant of the Tower, with a profound obeisance.
And he moved towards the door. Before reaching it, however, he was stopped by an usher, who placed a packet in his hands, saying it was important, and had just been brought from the Tower. The packet contained a letter, enclosed within which was a small piece of paper. On glancing at the letter, Bedingfeld started, and his countenance fell.
“What is the matter, Sir Henry?” demanded the King, remarking his altered looks.
“The prisoner, Sire!—the prisoner!” faltered Bedingfeld.
“What of him?” shrieked Constance, in tones that chilled those who heard her. “What has happened?”