“I know him not, Sire—he is a stranger,” replied Rodomont. “Apparently he is seeking admittance to one of the prisoners, which Mallet, the keeper, is unwilling to grant. Perchance, it may be Mistress Constance Tyrrell whom he desires to see.” “Bring him before me, I will question him,” said Philip. Rodomont instantly obeyed, and shortly afterwards returned with the friar and Mallet. The Franciscan made a humble obeisance to the King, but did not attempt to raise his hood. “An please your Majesty, this holy man is from Winchester,” said Mallet. “He is charged by Father Jerome of Saint Catherine’s Chapel on the Hill, with a message to Mistress Constance Tyrrell. Is it not so?” he added to the monk. The Franciscan bowed his head. “Is Father Jerome aware that she to whom he has sent you has lapsed from the faith?” said the King. “He is, Sire,” replied the monk, in tones that sounded strangely hollow, “but he hopes she may still be reclaimed. With the design of rendering some aid in the good work, I have come hither. Great success has hitherto attended my efforts; and therefore it is that good Father Jerome, who is deeply interested in Mistress Constance’s spiritual welfare, hath selected me for the office.” “An opportunity shall be afforded you of making the attempt,” said the King. “There can be no reason why this holy man should not be admitted to her,” he added to Mallet. “Take him to her cell.” “Mistress Constance is not in her cell at present, Sire,” observed Mallet. “Where is she, then?” cried the King, sharply. “She is with her Majesty, Sire,” replied Mallet. “With the Queen?” exclaimed Philip, surprised. “Go into the tower, good father, and await her return.” “Ha, here comes Mistress Constance,” exclaimed Rodomont, as the damsel, escorted by Simnel and Holiday, issued from the palace, and made her way towards the Lollards’ Tower. Bowing humbly to the King, she would have passed on, had he not stopped her. “You have been with her Majesty, as I understand?” he said. “How fares it with her now?” “As well as you could desire, Sire,” she replied. “Her Majesty has quite recovered.” “I would fain reward you for your good tidings,” said Philip. “It rests with yourself whether your imprisonment in this tower shall be prolonged.” “My term of durance is at an end, Sire,” she rejoined. “I am a prisoner, it is true, but only restricted to the limits of the palace. I desire no greater freedom. The Queen has conferred this grace upon me.” “Her Majesty has only anticipated my intentions,” said Philip. “It grieved me to think you should have been confined within that dreary cell. But why did you not appeal to me, when you well knew that a word would have procured you full liberty?” “But I could not utter that word, Sire,” she rejoined, coldly.