“May my earthly sufferings,” she cried, “avail me here—after, and may my blood wash out my guilt. I feel the enormity of my offence, and acknowledge the justice of my punishment. Pardon me, O injured Catherine—pardon me, I implore thee! Thou seest in me the most abject pitiable woman in the whole realm! Overthrown, neglected, despised—about to die a shameful death—what worse can befall me? Thine anguish was great, but it was never sharpened by remorse like mine. Oh! that I could live my life over again. I would resist all the dazzling temptations I have yielded to—above all, I would not injure thee. Oh! that I had resisted Henry's love—his false vows—his fatal lures! But it is useless to repine. I have acted wrongfully and must pay the penalty of my crime. May my tears, my penitence, my blood operate as an atonement, and procure me pardon from the merciful Judge before whom I shall shortly appear.”
In such prayers and lamentations she passed more than an hour, when her attendants entered to inform her that the Duke of Suffolk and the Lords Audley and Cromwell were without, and desired to see her. She immediately went forth to them.
“We are come to acquaint you, madam,” said Suffolk, “that you will be removed at an early hour tomorrow morning, to the Tower, there to abide during the king's pleasure.”
“If the king will have it so, my lords,” she replied, “I must needs go; but I protest my innocence, and will protest it to the last. I have ever been a faithful and loyal consort to his highness, and though I may not have demeaned myself to him so humbly and gratefully as I ought to have done—seeing how much I owe him—yet I have lacked nothing in affection and duty. I have had jealous fancies and suspicions of him, especially of late, and have troubled him with them; but I pray his forgiveness for my folly, which proceeded from too much regard, and if I am acquitted of my present charge, I will offend him so no more.”
“We will report what you say to the king,” rejoined Suffolk gravely; “but we are bound to add that his highness does not act on mere suspicion, the proofs of your guilt being strong against you.”
“There can be no such proofs,” cried Anne quickly. “Who are my accusers? and what do they state?”
“You are charged with conspiring against the king's life, and dishonouring his bed,” replied Suffolk sternly. “Your accusers will appear in due season.”
“They are base creatures suborned for the purpose!” cried Anne. “No loyal person would so forswear himself.”
“Time will show you who they are, madam,” said Suffolk.
“But having now answered all your questions, I pray you permit us to retire.”