“I cannot do it, Dudley,” cried Jane, in a voice of agony—“I cannot—cannot.”
“Neither do I desire it,” he replied. “I would not purchase life on such terms. We will die together.”
“Be it so,” observed Feckenham, with a disconcerted look. “The offer will never be repeated.”
“It would never have been made at all, if there had been a chance of its acceptance,” returned Dudley, coldly. “Tell your royal mistress, that I love my wife too well to require such a sacrifice at her hands, and that she loves me too well to make it.”
“Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, gazing at him with tearful eyes, “I can now die without a pang.”
“Have you aught more to say to each other?” demanded Feckenham. “You will meet no more on earth!”
“Yes, on the scaffold,” cried Jane.
“Not so,” replied Feckcnham, gloomily. “Lord Guilford Dudley will suffer on Tower Hill—you, madam, will meet your sentence on the green before the White Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard perished.”
“We shall meet in the grave, then,” rejoined Dudley, bitterly, “where Mary’s tyranny can neither reach us, nor the voice of juggling priest disturb us more.”
“Your prisoner,” cried Feckenham, turning angrily to the lieutenant.