The grief felt by every member of the Cardinal’s vast establishment for the deprivation which they felt they must soon undergo, was sincere and profound, but no one deplored his exalted master’s precarious condition more deeply than Rodomont Bittern. The poor who thronged the gates of the palace, and received alms and food from Priuli, put up earnest prayers for their benefactor’s recovery. But the fever abated not, and though its attacks were somewhat mitigated in severity, still the Cardinal’s debilitated frame was less able to withstand them. He daily grew weaker and weaker. Notwithstanding his prostration, however, he was carried twice in each day to the chapel to hear mass. One evening after vespers, the large easy-chair in which he reclined was wheeled into the library, and Priuli, who now seldom left him, took his accustomed place by his side. Four days having elapsed since the Cardinal’s last attack, it was certain that the night would not pass without a return of the fever. Notwithstanding this, Pole was conversing cheerfully with his friend, when Rodomont Bittern entered to say that Mistress Constance Tyrrell was without, and desired to see his Eminence. “Admit her straight,” replied Pole. “She is ever welcome.” And the next moment Constance came in. The expression of her countenance, which was as pale as death, struck Priuli, but did not appear to attract Pole’s attention. Moving noiselessly towards the Cardinal, Constance knelt before him, while he spread his thin white hands over her head, and in feeble tones gave her his benediction. “How fares the Queen?” inquired Pole, as Constance arose. “She was somewhat easier this morning, as I understand.” “Her Majesty is easier now,” replied Constance. “She is free from all pain.” “Is she gone?” inquired Pole, while a premonitory shiver shook his wasted frame. “She is gone,” rejoined Constance. “The heart that has so long suffered has ceased to beat.” “May the angels of Heaven receive her soul and present it before the Lord!” exclaimed Pole. “And may whatever sin she has committed in life through human frailty be forgiven her! Did her spirit pass away easily?” “Most easily,” replied Constance. “Her sole concern was for the welfare of her Church.” “The chief pillar of the Church is broken,” cried Pole, in a voice of anguish; “and my hand, which might have helped to support the falling structure, is also powerless. _Domine, salva nos, perimus! Salvator Mundi, salva Ecclesiam tuam._” For some moments he remained in fervent prayer, after which he seemed calmer, and inquired if the Queen had said aught concerning the King her husband. “She spoke not of him at the last,” replied Constance, “but it would seem that the loss of Calais produced a deep impression on her, for she said, ‘My physicians seek to know the cause of my malady. Let them open my breast, and they will find “Calais” graven on my heart.’”