She was seated at a small table, perusing by the light of a single taper, which dimly illuminated the large but scantily-furnished apartment, one of the controversial tracts of the day, and essaying, but in vain, to fix her thoughts on what she read. Ever and anon she arose, and, going to the window, looked forth. The night was profoundly dark, and nothing was discernible except the trees skirting the lawn. “He is later than usual,” she thought, as time went on. “Will he not come?” Scarcely had she asked herself the question, when she distinctly heard footsteps without, and, concluding it must be Osbert, she passed through the window, and flew to meet him. She could just descry a figure wrapped in a mantle, advancing towards her from beneath a tree. In another moment this person, whom she took to be her lover, reached her, and seized her hand. Startled by the proceeding, she involuntarily exclaimed, “Is it you?” “Yes, ’tis I—Osbert,” rejoined the other, under his breath. “I had almost given you up,” she returned. “I feared something had occurred to prevent your coming.” The person she addressed made no reply. He had recognised her voice, and mentally ejaculated, “Can it be possible that it is Constance Tyrrell!” “You do not answer,” she said, after a pause, “and your manner seems strange—very strange.” “’Tis she, by all the saints!” muttered the other. “Let us go in!” he added, drawing her through the open window into the room. No sooner were they within the influence of the light than the countenance of him she most dreaded on earth was revealed to Constance. “The King!” she exclaimed, in accents of affright. “Ay, the King,” rejoined Philip, regarding her with fierce exultation. “So, I have found you at last, and where I looked for you least. Little did I deem you were the beauty secluded with such jealous care by Osbert Clinton. Little did I expect, when I took the trouble to ascertain who he kept concealed, that I should be so richly rewarded. Never for a moment did I suppose that he would dare to rob me of my chief treasure. But he shall pay dearly for his audacity and treachery.” “Be not unjust towards him, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “In Osbert’s place, you would have acted as he has acted. He loved me, and seeing the peril in which I stood, did not hesitate to deliver me.” “And you have not proved ungrateful for the service,” retorted Philip, bitterly. “You have requited his devotion. The love refused to me has been bestowed freely on him.” “Osbert’s love for me was not dishonourable, Sire,” she replied, “and in requiting it I committed no crime. I could not return your Majesty’s love without guilt. By this time the passion I was unhappy enough to inspire you with must have subsided, and you will view my conduct less harshly.”