They looked for no clemency. Unknown to each other, the prisoners were borne again to the palace at Richmond, each in a separate closed carriage, jealously guarded by soldiers with drawn swords. The gorgeous sunlight streamed in through the windows of their coaches, the dust of midsummer whirled around the wheels, but their minds were withdrawn from all outward and visible things. They felt they were going to their death. God grant that it be given to them to embrace it together! On their arrival at the palace, shortly after six o’clock, they were taken at once to an antechamber, which was next the Queen’s own apartment. Here they met again. And the solemn-faced, harsh-looking men who had them in their care had enough humanity to stand apart, while Anne yielded herself to the arms of Gervase. “Have you the dagger?” she whispered, shaking convulsively. “Alas! they have found it,” said Gervase. “If only I had it now, I would plunge it into your heart ... my life!” “Oh, if only you had it!” They had not long to wait for the dread summons to the Queen. All too soon appeared the Lord Treasurer. At once, he ushered them into the room where the Queen sat. Gervase had cast off his disguise. No longer was he the aged and bearded Italian music master, but a trim and rather fine young man, dressed very soberly, to be sure, yet affecting a style not out of place at that Court, of which less than a year ago he had been an ornament. Anne remained, however, in her charming boy’s dress of the previous day. The lean grace of outline was rendered more poignant by the thin brown cheeks, the bright, grave eyes, the head of close-clipt curls. In the wistfulness of this frail figure, chastened by the long night of the soul, there was a pathos which struck at the hearts of all who beheld it. Besides, the Queen and the Lord Treasurer, there was one other person in the room. Gervase and Anne, for all that they were passing through a nightmare of dull terror, were sensible of a presence in the background. It was their friend the play-actor, grave of look and yet unfearing; gentle, pitiful, and yet secure of soul. Somehow, the sight of him who had done so much, who had put his fortunes to the proof, nay, even life itself, that he might help them, moved these hapless lovers to new courage. From the gentle face of this man, all compassion, all tenderness, their eyes sought that of the Queen. That was a very different countenance. And yet, as those hawklike eyes met theirs, a curious light ran in them. It was almost as if, in spite of herself, Elizabeth had been moved by the sight of this shadowy, yet dauntless thing, this _Rosalind_ who yesterday had charmed her with her coquetry, her grace, her sorcery of voice and look.