Meanwhile, the boats, having made divers evolutions, drew up before the Tower, and Anne Boleyn was received at the landing by the lord-mayor and the sheriffs of the city, who came to congratulate and escort her to her apartments. It would be difficult to describe the ostentation displayed by Henry VIII. on this occasion; he doubtless thought in this way to exalt, in the estimation of the people, the birth of his new wife, and impose on them by her dignity. The apartments in the Tower destined to receive them had been entirely refurnished; the grand stairway was covered from top to bottom with Flanders tapestry, and loaded with flowers and censers smoking with perfume, which embalmed the air with a thousand precious odors. A violet-colored carpet, embroidered with gold and furs, extended along their line of march and traversed the courtyards. Anne and all her _cortège_ followed the route so sumptuously marked out. As she rested her delicate feet on the silken carpet she was transported with joy, and gazed with delighted eyes on the splendors surrounding her. “I am queen――Queen of England!” she said to herself every moment. That thought alone found a place in her heart; she saw nothing but the throne, the title, this magnificence; she was in a whirl of enjoyment and reckless delight. * * * * * In the meantime Margaret and Sir Thomas were also entering the Tower. The young girl shuddered at the aspect of the black walls and the long and gloomy corridors through which she had been made to follow. Her heart throbbed violently as she gazed at the little iron-grated windows, closely barred, rising in tiers one above the other. It seemed to her she could see at each one of those little squares, so like the openings of a cage, a condemned head sighing at the sight of heaven or the thought of liberty. She walked behind Sir Thomas, and her heart was paralyzed by terror and fear as she fixed her eyes on that cherished father. They at length reached a large, vaulted hall, damp and gloomy, the white-washed walls of which were covered with names and various kinds of drawings; a large wooden table and some worm-eaten stools constituted the only furniture. A leaden inkstand, some rolls of parchment, an old register lying open, and a man who was writing, interrogated Sir Thomas. “Age?” asked the man; and he fixed his luminous, cat-like eyes on Thomas More. “Fifty years,” responded Sir Thomas. “Your profession?” “I have none at present,” he answered. “In that case I shall write you down as the former lord chancellor.” “As you please,” said More. “But, sir,” continued Sir Thomas, “I have received an order to present myself before the council, and I should not be imprisoned before being heard.” “Pardon me, sir,” replied the clerk quietly, “the order has been received this morning; and if you had not come to-day, you would have been arrested this evening.”