Through this gate went Elizabeth, expecting naught but death; dreaming little of the hour when all England should lie within the hollow of her white hand. Under these portals three short years after she issued from the Tower in all the full flush of her pride and triumph, received by lords and dukes, amid the blare of trumpets, and peal of bells and roar of guns. Elizabeth’s hapless mother, Anne Boleyn, returned to the Tower. No nobles in her train now; no burst of music; no chime of bells nor roar of artillery; alone, save with her jailers; her fair fame blackened; her triumphs, glories—all shrunk to this little measure. The husband she had stolen from another, in turn lured from her, wearied of her, longing to be rid of her, hurrying her to her fearful doom with brutal haste. “A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag, To be the aim of ever dangerous shot; A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble; A queen in jest only to fill the scene. … Where is thy husband now? … Who sues and kneels and says God save the queen? Where be thy bending peers that flattered thee? Where be the thronging troops that followed thee? … For one being sued to, one that humbly sues; For queen, a very caitiff crowned with care; Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about And left thee but a very prey to time; Having no more but thought of what thou wert, To torture thee the more, being what thou art.” What thoughts must have chased each other in lightning rapidity through the mind of beautiful, brilliant, witty Anne Boleyn, during those short seventeen days she passed in the Tower before she was led out to execution. What experience of life had she not compressed into those three little years of usurpation, during which she spurned “heads like foot balls,” laughed, danced, and jested away her poor, butterfly life? What remorse must have been hers when the sad, pale face of Katharine arose before her! What unspeakable anguish when the coquettish features of Jane Seymour swam before her weeping eyes! On the 19th of May, 1536, when hedge and field were bursting into bloom, when birds sang and soft breezes played, when all nature must have breathed of beauty, hope and life—Anne Boleyn went forth the second time from the Tower to receive her crown; not this time an earthly diadem, glittering with jewels, but the thorny crown of martyrdom. Not in cloth of gold and blazing with gems, but in sable robes went she to this coronation, and her only salute was the dull boom of the cannon which announced to the royal ruffian waiting at Richmond that he was free.