Preceded by Rodomont Bittern and others of the guard, and attended by the Cardinal, their Majesties crossed the court to the Lollards’ Tower. As the Queen was slowly ascending the steps leading to the entrance, a sudden faintness seized her, and she paused. “Better turn back, gracious Madam, if you feel ill,” observed the Cardinal, noticing her extreme paleness. “No, it will pass in a moment,” she replied. Resolved not to give way, she went on; but the effort was too much for her, and she had no sooner gained the Post Room than she sank on a chair completely exhausted. “What place is this?” she asked, in a feeble voice, and glancing around. “It is called the Post Room, Madam, from that wooden pillar in the centre,” replied Pole. “It looks like a torture-chamber,” observed Philip. “It has been put to a similar purpose, I fear,” said the Cardinal. “Yon pillar has not served merely to support the roof.” “Where is Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Mary. “In the prison-chamber overhead,” replied Pole. “The staircase is steep and difficult. ’Twould be hazardous to your Majesty to mount it.” “Let her be brought down,” said the Queen. Upon this, Rodomont Bittern, who, with Simon Mallet, keeper of the tower, stood waiting for orders, immediately disappeared through an arched doorway at the further end of the sombre apartment. Shortly afterwards they returned, bringing with them Constance Tyrrell. This done, they retired. Constance looked thin and pale, but her colour heightened as she beheld Philip seated near the Queen. The blush, however, quickly faded away, and was succeeded by a death-like pallor, but she did not lose her self-possession. Advancing towards her, the Cardinal said, in a low tone,— “Kneel to her Majesty. Peradventure, you may move her compassion.” Constance did as she was bidden, and threw herself at the Queen’s feet, crying,— “If I have offended your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness.” “What have I to forgive you, minion?—what have you done?” said Mary, fixing a searching look upon her. “I know nothing of your proceedings since you fled from Hampton Court. Where have you hidden yourself? Why were you brought here? Speak!” “It is a long story to tell, Madam,” cried Constance, troubled by the stern gaze of the King. “On peril of your life, I command you to conceal nothing from me!” cried Mary, with a burst of uncontrollable fury. “Confess your guilt, or I will wrest the avowal of it from you by torture. Speak out, and you have nothing to fear—but hesitate, equivocate, palter with me, and you are lost.” “As I hope for salvation, Madam,” rejoined Constance, “I have nothing to confess.” “It is false!” cried the Queen, with increasing fury. “I read your guilt in your looks. You cannot regard me in the face, and declare you have not injured me.” “I can look Heaven itself in the face, and declare I am innocent of all offence towards your Majesty,” rejoined Constance.