He would _not_ become the tool and minion of a Tudor queen--loving enough now, but endowed with all the vices and all the arrogance of her race; he would not barter his life in order to become the butt of contending political factions, the toy of ambitious parties, flattered by some, hated by most, despised by all. A courtier, a lapdog, an invertebrate creature without power or dignity. Bah! the hangman's rope was less degrading! And Mary, as she read all this in the expressive eyes which met hers fully and unwaveringly, realized that her cause was lost. She had staked everything on this one final appeal, but she, a Tudor, had struck against an obstinacy greater than her own. She could not flatter, she could not bribe, and he was--by the very hopelessness of his present position--beyond the reach of threats or punishment. He saw that her heart was admitting that she was vanquished. The hardness within him melted into pity. "Believe me, my Queen," he said gently, "the memory of your kind words will accompany me to my life's end, it will cheer me to-morrow and sustain me to the last. And now for pity's sake," he added earnestly, "may I entreat Your Majesty to order the guard . . . and to let me go." "That is not your last word, my lord," urged Mary with the insistence of a desperate cause. "Think. . . ." "I have thought--much," he replied quietly. "Life holds nothing very tempting at best, does it? The honour of the Queen of England and mine own self-esteem were too heavy a price to pay for so worthless a trifle." Mary would have spoken again, but just then there was a discreet knock at the door twice repeated. She had perforce to say-- "Enter!" and the next moment a page-in-waiting stood bowing before her. "What is it?" she demanded. "The Lord High Steward has arrived at the Palace, Your Majesty," announced the page, "and the Lieutenant of the Tower demands the prisoner." "'Tis well! you may go." "The Lieutenant of the Tower awaits Your Majesty's pleasure and His Grace of Wessex in the next room." "'Tis well. The Lieutenant may wait." The page bowed again and retired. Then only did Mary Tudor's self-control entirely desert her. Forgetting all her dignity and pride, her self-will and masterfulness, she clung to the man she loved with passionate ardour, sobbing and entreating. "No! no!--they shall not take you!--they dare not! Say but one word to me, my dear lord . . . what is it to you?--'twere all my life to me. . . . What should we care for the opinion of the world?--Am I not above it? . . . so will you be when you are King of England. . . ." Wessex had need of all his firmness, and of all his courage, to free himself as gently as he could from her clinging arms. He waited until her half-hysterical paroxysm of grief had subsided, smoothing with tender hand her moist hair and burning forehead. She was a woman beside herself with grief, almost sublime in this hour of madness. "I will not let you go!" she repeated persistently.