Diane enters. She is dressed in long black robes which sweep the floor. Her head is covered with a thick lace veil which she raises as she approaches the King. She weeps, but her tears do not mar her beauty, which is absolutely radiant. She is exquisitely fair and wonderfully fresh, with golden hair and dark eyebrows--a most winsome lady. She throws herself at the King’s feet. She clasps her hands. Her sobs drown her voice. “Pardon, Sire, pardon my father!” she at length falters. The King stoops forward, and raises her to the estrade on which he stands. He looks tenderly into her soft blue eyes, his hands are locked in hers. “Your father, madame, my old and trusted servant, is guilty of treason.” “Alas! Sire, I fear so; but he is old, too old for punishment. He has been hitherto a true subject of your Majesty.” “He is blessed, madame, with a most surpassing daughter.” Francis pauses and looks steadfastly at her with eyes of ardent admiration. “But I fear I must confirm the sentence of my judges, madame; your father is certain to be found guilty of treason.” “Oh! Sire, mercy, mercy! grant me my father’s life, I implore you”; and again Diane falls prostrate at the King’s feet, and looks supplicatingly into his face. Again the King raises her. “Well, madame, you are aware that you desire the pardon of a traitor; on what ground do you ask for his life?” “Sire, I ask it for the sake of mercy; mercy is the privilege of kings,” and her soft eyes seek those of Francis and rest upon them. “I have come so far, too, from Normandy, to invoke it--my poor father!” and she sobs again. “Your Majesty will not send me back refused, broken-hearted?” Still her eyes are fixed upon the King. “Mercy, Madame Diane, is, doubtless, a royal prerogative. I am an anointed king,” and he lets go her hands, and draws himself up proudly, “and I may use it; but the prerogative of a woman is beauty. Beauty, Madame Diane,” adds Francis, with a glance at the lovely woman still kneeling at his feet, “is more potent than a king’s word.” There is silence for a few moments. Diane’s eyes are now bent upon the ground, her bosom heaves. Francis contemplates her with delight. “Will you, fair lady, deign to exercise your prerogative?” “Truly, Sire, I know not what your Majesty would say,” replies Diane, looking down and blushing. Something in his eyes gives her hope, for she starts violently, rises, and clasping her hands together exclaims, “How, Sire! do I read your meaning aright? can I, by my humble service to your Majesty----” “Yes, fair lady, you can. Your presence at my Court, where your adorable beauty shall receive due homage, will be my hostage for your father’s loyalty. Madame Diane, I declare that the Comte de Saint-Vallier is PARDONED. Though he had rent the crown from off our head, your father is pardoned. And I add, madame, that it was the charm of his daughter that rendered a refusal impossible.”