“I will think of it,” returned Mary.
“Sooner than this shall be,” interposed Sir Henry Bedingfeld, “since none worthier of the office can be found, I will undertake it.”
“You are my good genius, Bedingfeld,” replied Mary.—“To you, then, I confide her, and I will associate with you in the office, Sir John Williams, of Thame. The place of her confinement shall be my palace at Woodstock, and she will remain there till you receive further orders. You will set out with a sufficient guard for Oxfordshire.”
“I am ever ready to obey your highness,” replied Bedingfeld.
“Accursed meddler!” exclaimed Renard to D’Egmont, “he has marred my project.”
“The Earl of Devonshire will be confined in Fotheringay Castle, in Northamptonshire,” pursued Mary. “To you, Sir Thomas Tresham,” she continued, addressing one of those near her, “I commit him.”
“I am honoured in the charge,” returned Tresham, bowing.
“Your majesty will repent this ill-judged clemency,” cried Renard, unable to repress his choler; “and since my counsels are unheeded, I must pray your highness to allow me to resign the post I hold near your person.”
“Be it so,” replied Mary in a freezing tone; “we accept your resignation—and shall pray his imperial majesty to recal you.”
“Is this my reward?” exclaimed Renard, as he retired, covered with shame and confusion. “Cursed is he that puts faith in princes!”