“Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” said Philip to the Lieutenant of the Tower, whose looks manifested the lively interest he took in what was passing, “you will return to the Tower, not with a death-warrant, but with an order for Osbert’s immediate liberation.” “Here it is, Sir Henry,” said Mary, tracing a few lines on a sheet of paper, and giving it to Bedingfeld. “Tell him that he has our full pardon.” “I shall not fail, gracious Madam,” rejoined the Lieutenant of the Tower, with a profound obeisance. And he moved towards the door. Before reaching it, however, he was stopped by an usher, who placed a packet in his hands, saying it was important, and had just been brought from the Tower. The packet contained a letter, enclosed within which was a small piece of paper. On glancing at the letter, Bedingfeld started, and his countenance fell. “What is the matter, Sir Henry?” demanded the King, remarking his altered looks. “The prisoner, Sire!—the prisoner!” faltered Bedingfeld. “What of him?” shrieked Constance, in tones that chilled those who heard her. “What has happened?” “Read, Sire,” said Bedingfeld, handing the missive he had just received to the King. “Ha! is it so?” cried Philip, his countenance changing as he read the dispatch. “Remove her, I pray you, my Lord Cardinal,” he added to Pole. “I will not go till I learn the truth,” cried Constance, distractedly. “Speak, Sir, I conjure you,” she added to Bedingfeld. “Better let her know the truth, be it what it may,” said Pole. “Ay, speak, Sir Henry—keep her not in suspense,” said the Queen. “The prisoner was well when you left the Tower—ha?” “He was, Madam, but——” “But what?” demanded Mary. “Since then he has died by poison,” said Philip. “By poison! how could it be procured?” asked the Queen. “It appears to have been contained in a ring which he was unluckily allowed to wear,” replied Philip. “Is there no poison left for me, that I may join him?” cried Constance. “Kind Heaven support her!” exclaimed Pole. “Her reason wanders.” “No, I am calm enough now,” she rejoined. “Then you may bear to hear that Osbert’s last thoughts were given to you,” said Philip. “This scrap of paper was found clutched in his dying grasp. On it are written the words, ‘Farewell for ever, beloved Constance!’” Taking the piece of crumpled paper from the King, she gazed at it for a few moments, and then pressed it convulsively to her lips. “Farewell, Osbert—farewell for ever!” she cried. “No, not for ever,” rejoined Pole, solemnly. “You will be united in a better world.” Praying the Cardinal to stay with her and console her, the King withdrew with D’Egmont and Bedingfeld. Left alone with Pole and the Queen, Constance was permitted by them to indulge her grief without restraint before any attempt at consolation was made; but when these paroxysms were over, and she became calmer, the good Cardinal poured balm into her bruised spirit, and ceased not till his efforts were successful.