'And I have great anxiety about him,' went on my dear lady. 'Doubtless the priests are endeavouring to convert him to Romanism, and since they succeeded with his father----' 'Madame, did the Duke of Northumberland give up his faith?' 'Yes,' she answered sadly. 'He was not brave, not heroic; he gave way on all sides when death was imminent. But they have killed him. He is dead, and we must say nothing, except good, of the dead.' She quoted a Latin proverb to that effect,[1] but it was strange to my ears, and I have so far forgotten it as not to be able to write it down. [1] _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_.--ED. I could not help thinking that Northumberland's ambition was in reality his religion, but could not say so after those words of Lady Jane's. 'He was beheaded on Tower Hill,' she continued, 'and oh! God grant that the same fate may not befall my dear lord!' The days passed slowly and quietly for me and my dear lady in her prison in the Tower. Queen Mary did not send for me to come and sing to her any more. She went to stay for a while at Richmond Palace, and, then again, we heard that she was at Whitehall, and sometimes she was in her palace in the Tower, but that made no difference to us. Certain privileges were accorded by her to Lady Jane, and of course I shared them. For instance, we were allowed to walk across the green to St. Peter's Church occasionally, where Lady Jane much enjoyed the fine music, and liked to join in the services. On these occasions she would look up at the Beauchamp Tower, as we passed it, wondering how her husband was and what he was doing. My heart ached for her many a time, when I saw her wistful face upturned to the windows of the Tower, as she vainly tried to see the face she loved. At least Mary might have permitted them to meet occasionally, if she could not permit them to enjoy each other's constant society. But a day was coming, though I knew it not then, when they would be allowed to be together, at least for a short time. Lady Jane was also permitted to walk in the queen's garden--this was a pleasure to her, who so dearly loved fresh air and flowers. Sometimes she would talk about the gardens at Sion House, and the Thames flowing by them, and wonder if we should ever go there again. At other times she would tell me about Bradgate, where she had been brought up and where her tutor, Mr. Roger Ascham, used to marvel because she preferred to sit reading Plato to joining her young companions in the sport of hunting. It was well that she preferred books, as they were now her solace when it would not have been possible for her to have had the other pastime.