“Do with me as you will,” said Constance, resignedly. “I am in your Majesty’s hands, and am prepared to seal my faith with my blood.” “Were anything wanting to convince me of the necessity of utterly extirpating heresy from the realm, I should now be satisfied,” remarked Mary. “An example shall be made of this mischievous Derrick Carver. He shall be delivered over to the religious tribunals, to be dealt with according to his deserts. Prepare for immediate departure,” she added to Constance. “I myself will give instructions respecting you.” Constance bowed submissively. By this time the Queen’s anger towards her consort had somewhat subsided, and she said to him in a somewhat kindlier tone, “Your Majesty can have no further business here. I will pray you to accompany me.” Philip bowed. As he quitted the chamber with the Queen, he cast a parting glance at Constance, who remained in the same humble attitude, with her eyes fixed upon the ground. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. IN WHAT MANNER CONSTANCE FLED FROM HAMPTON COURT PALACE. The unhappy girl was still alone in the chamber, having scarcely moved since the departure of the royal pair, when the fold of tapestry that masked the doorway was drawn quickly aside, and Osbert Clinton stood before her, pale and agitated. “I have come to save you,” he cried, abruptly. “I know what has occurred. The Queen designs to send you to a convent.” “True,” she rejoined, sadly. “Her Majesty may deal with me as she thinks fit. But all efforts to compel me to return to the faith I have abjured will prove ineffectual.” “But this is not the real danger by which you are threatened,” he continued. “The King will not permit her Majesty’s intentions to be carried out, and has ordered me to convey you away privately to a secure retreat, where there will be no risk of discovery by his jealous consort. You will escape the convent, but only to encounter a worse fate.” “I will die rather than submit,” she cried, despairingly. “Pity me, kind Heaven! pity me!” “Hear me, Constance,” he cried. “The avowal I am about to make is wrung from me by the circumstances in which you are placed. I love you to desperation, and would plunge my sword in Philip’s heart rather than you should fall a sacrifice to him. Dismiss all doubts, and trust yourself with me. I will lay down my life for you.” “If I consent, whither would you take me?” she demanded. “But no! I cannot—dare not fly with you.” “You wrong me by these suspicions, Constance,” he cried, half reproachfully. “Loving you as I do, could I do aught to injure you?” “But the King himself professes to love me——”