“Have mercy on him, Sire!” she cried. “Full well I know what will be his fate if sent to the Tower. Oh spare him! spare him!” “I cannot listen to your entreaties,” rejoined Philip, coldly. “He has been guilty of high treason, and must pay the penalty of his offence.” “Do not intercede for me, Constance,” said Osbert. “It is useless; he has no pity in his nature.” “I have none for those who deceive me,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Take him hence, Sir,” he added to Rodomont. “Here is your warrant.” “Oh no! let him not go thus!” shrieked Constance, starting to her feet, and falling into her lover’s arms, “You will not separate us, Sire?” “Wherefore not?” demanded Philip. “Is he your husband?” “Ay, in the eyes of Heaven. I am affianced to him,” she replied. “Even were you wedded to him you could not accompany him,” rejoined the King. “But no marriage will ever take place between you. Bid him a lasting farewell. You will meet no more on earth.” “No more! You cannot mean it, Sire. Oh, unsay those terrible words!” shrieked Constance. Philip remained inflexible. “Calm yourself, Constance,” said Osbert. “I heed not what may happen to myself. My sole distress is in leaving you.” “Fear nothing on my account,” she rejoined, in a low tone. “Heaven will protect me. Yet I will make one last effort to save you. Oh, Sire,” she added, approaching the King, “as you are great and powerful, be generous and merciful. Forgive him. He will offend no more. I am the cause of his disobedience. When I am gone he will be faithful as ever.” “On one condition I will spare him,” said Philip, in a low tone. “I dare not ask your Majesty what that condition is?” rejoined Constance, trembling. “You may easily guess it,” returned Philip. “Be mine.” “Then all hope is over,” sighed Constance. “I will die rather than assent.” “So you think now,” muttered Philip; “but I will find means to shake your stubbornness. Take hence the prisoners,” he added aloud to Rodomont. “I am equally guilty—if guilt there be,” cried Constance, with a loud voice. “I take all present to witness that I utterly reject the doctrines of the Romish Church, and hold its ceremonies to be vain, superfluous, superstitious, and abominable.” “Be silent, imprudent girl,” cried Philip. “Be not afraid to speak out, daughter,” cried Derrick Carver. “Truly you have profited by my exhortations.” “I will never forsake my opinions,” cried Constance, firmly, “but will maintain them at any tribunal before which I may be brought. After this declaration and confession, your Majesty must send me with the other prisoners.” “You have indeed put it out of my power to befriend you,” rejoined Philip, angrily. “Since you ask to be brought before a religious tribunal, you shall have your wish.”