The usher omitted to state that his chief inducement to incur the risk was a valuable ring, given him by the lady.
“Well, I will go to her,” said the king. “I pray you, excuse me for a short space, fair mistress,” he added to Anne Boleyn.
And quitting the choir, he entered the northern aisle, and casting his eyes down the line of noble columns by which it is flanked, and seeing no one, he concluded that the lady must have retired into the Urswick Chapel. And so it proved; for on reaching this exquisite little shrine he perceived a tall masked dame within it, clad in robes of the richest black velvet. As he entered the chapel, the lady advanced towards him, and throwing herself on her knees, removed her mask—disclosing features stamped with sorrow and suffering, but still retaining an expression of the greatest dignity. They were those of Catherine of Arragon.
Uttering an angry exclamation, Henry turned on his heel and would have left her, but she clung to the skirts of his robe.
“Hear me a moment, Henry—my king—my husband—one single moment—hear me!” cried Catherine, in tones of such passionate anguish that he could not resist the appeal.
“Be brief, then, Kate,” he rejoined, taking her hand to raise her.
“Blessings on you for the word!” cried the queen, covering his hand with kisses. “I am indeed your own true Kate—your faithful, loving, lawful wife!”
“Rise, madam!” cried Henry coldly; “this posture beseems not Catherine of Arragon.”
“I obey you now as I have ever done,” she replied, rising; “though if I followed the prompting of my heart, I should not quit my knees till I had gained my suit.”
“You have, done wrong in coming here, Catherine, at this juncture,” said Henry, “and may compel me to some harsh measure which I would willingly have avoided.”