_Fr. Seb._ Hear, my sovereign. This meeting is not chance. I sought thee here To tell what palsies me to think on. _Hen._ Speak, Then think of it no more. _Fr. Seb._ 'Tis said De Burgh Has gained the victory 'gainst all expectance. I know that he was sure he went to death, Else had he never put unto his lips The rose that bloomed for one so high above him. But dreaded death is yet full gracious, sire, And sanctions rights too bold for life to claim. _Hen._ Did Hubert wrong me, father? _Fr. Seb._ Alas, my king! _Hen._ Come, drop your burden even to my heart That I may know its weight. _Fr. Seb._ Sire, in the hour That he spent last on land, I married him To a most noble lady. _Hen._ Married? Ha! Nor asked consent of me? Not one "By your good leave, my king"? _Fr. Seb._ If in my words So soon you find affront to majesty, I dare not tell you more. _Hen._ Nay, I'll forgive him. Remembering his service 'twere too stern To make contention of his marriage. _Fr. Seb._ Though he should banish all the woes of England, Make sorrow alien, and a tear unknown, Yet has he wronged a king. Though happy mothers Drop on their knees and let no hour pass by Without its prayer for him, still has he wronged A king! _Hen._ Wilt never speak because you speak So much? _Fr. Seb._ Here let me lie, and pray your grace For two long troubled hearts. When I have spoken Then set thy foot upon my priestly head, But spare them, spare them, sire! _Hen._ Up! Rise, I say, From this debasement. We shall take good care To shield your holiness. Now speak! _Fr. Seb._ One word Will tell you--one. _Hen._ [_Taking a seat_] And how much time will 't take To say that word? _Fr. Seb._ It is the name of her Whom knightly Hubert made his wife. _Hen._ Is it A long name, father? _Fr. Seb._ [_On his knees_] It is Margaret. _Hen._ [_Rising_] Of Scotland? _Fr. Seb._ [_Covering his head_] Ay, my liege. _Hen._ [_Aside_] Deliverance! Rise, father, rise, and learn that even a king Is noble enough to suffer and forgive. _Fr. Seb._ Have I my ears? Are these your words, my lord? Or does some pitying angel alchemize Them into sounds more fit to reach my weak And trembling age? _Hen._ You hear even as I speak. 'Tis true that Hubert pitched his love full high. Good manners had not o'ershot the royal bow; But take my word no harm shall come to him. _Fr. Seb._ He'll need a friend, my liege, for dangers stride In wake of this rash marriage. _Hen._ Leave them To me. I'll try my fledgling wit in this. Where is the cardinal? _Fr. Seb._ I' the western hall.