But she could give no heed now to her own pains. Her mind was filled with horror, with a rage of pity. His bearing was so noble, so full of an instant tenderness, and in four brief days he must die by the ax in the pride and splendor of his youth. “Oh, I cannot bear it,” she cried. “I cannot think of you as at the point of death.” The potent wine of youth in her own veins rendered the thought intolerable. Such a rush of anguish came upon her young heart as made even the long miseries of the night seem of no account. “No, no, it cannot be. I must speak to my father.” “Pray, who is your father, mistress?” “My father is Sir John Feversham, the Constable of this Castle.” “Alas! mistress, it is he who read to me the Queen’s warrant. He of all men cannot help me, for it is he who is pledged to do the Queen’s will.” She who yesterday had ventured to proclaim herself the equal of all men was now shaken with a storm of weeping. “I will go myself to the Queen and swear to her your innocence.” “Alas! mistress, there is no time. Besides, she would not heed you. A subtle enemy has done his work, and I have given up all hope of life. But by God’s grace on Tuesday I am determined to die well.” Her sorrow for this brave man was a thing to see. The proud heart was wrung with a distress that her own cruel suffering may have rendered more poignant. Yesterday, in the hour of her shallow arrogance, compassion for his fate might have irked her less. But since then she had known the dark night of the soul. Something seemed to have broken inside her heart. Henceforward in her plastic woman’s nature would be a subtle kinship with all great suffering, since she herself had known it. “Is there naught I may do to save you?” “There is nothing, mistress. Yet I love you for your pitiful heart, and I’ll promise you that on Tuesday I’ll walk the firmer for it. But do not consider me, I pray you. I do not think I am unhappy. I would that you were not, sweet mistress. Tell me why you have been used so cruelly?” His voice was grave and beguiling, like one whose soul has deep places in it. In despite of the slow agony of her tears she had no choice but to heed it. There was in his tender speech a quality that melted her resolve as though it had been but a flake of snow. “Tell me, sweet mistress, I pray you.” How could she tell him of her frowardness? How could she tell him of the setting up of her stubborn will and of the grievous fashion of its breaking? How could she tell him that in a single night she was cured forever of the folly of holding herself other than she was? But his gentle insistence was beyond her power to put off. “I have been beaten,” she said with utter humility. “And all that has been done to me is no more than my merit.”