Her voice had sunk down very low, almost to a whisper now, the hand, which he still held in his own, trembled violently and became burning hot. "And no one would dare to whisper ill of the King Consort of England." He turned to her; she was standing beside him, her hand imprisoned in his, her face bent so that he could not meet her eyes. But there was such an infinity of pathos in the attitude of this domineering, haughty woman wilfully humbling her pride before her love, that with a tender feeling of reverence he bent the knee before her and tenderly kissed her hand. "Ah, my sweet Queen," he said with gentle sadness, "I am and always will be your most devoted subject--but do you not see how impossible it is that I should accept this great honour, which you would deign to confer upon me?" "You refuse? Is it that you have not one spark of love for me?" "I have far too much veneration for my Queen to allow her to sully her fair name. If being avowedly guilty I were acquitted by Your Majesty's desire, 'twould be said the Queen had saved her lover . . . and then married a felon." "I would stake mine honour, that no one shall dare . . ." "Honour is already lost, my Queen, once it is at stake." "But I will save you," cried Mary with ever-increasing vehemence, "in spite of yourself, in spite of your confessions, in spite of all these lies and deceptions. . . . I'll save you in the very teeth of your judges and your peers, and proclaim to the whole world that I saved you--guilty or not guilty, proud gentleman or felon--because my name is Mary Tudor, and that there is no law in England outside my will." Pride and passion almost beautified her. Her love for this man was the one soft, tender trait in her strange and complex character, but Tudor-like she _would_ have her way, she would rule his destiny, command his fate, tear and destroy everything around her so long as her caprice held sway. But he had suddenly risen to his feet, and stood confronting her now, tall and erect, with a pride as great, as obstinate as her own, a haughty dignity which neither Queen nor destiny, neither sorrow, disgrace or fear had the power to bend. "Ere that dishonour fall upon us both, Your Majesty," he said firmly, "the last Duke of Wessex will lie in a suicide's grave." Her eyes were fixed upon his, and he, carried away by the poignancy of this supreme battle fought by his pride against her passion, allowed her to read his innermost thoughts. He had nothing to hide from her now, not even his love, miserable and desperate as it was: but he wanted her to know that not even at this fateful moment, when he stood 'twixt a scaffold and a crown, did he waver in the firm resolve which had guided him throughout his life.