Just as he was about to depart, steps were heard on the staircase, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld, attended by a couple of halberdiers, entered the chamber. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand. “You are the bearer of my death-warrant, I perceive, sir,” said Jane, rising at his approach, but without displaying any emotion. “On the contrary, madam,” returned Sir Henry, kindly, “it rejoices me to say that I am a bearer of her majesty’s pardon.” “Clogged by the condition of my becoming a Catholic, I presume?” rejoined Jane, disdainfully. “Clogged by no condition,” replied Bedingfeld, “except that of your living in retirement.” Jane could scarcely credit her senses, and she looked so bewildered that the knight repeated what he had said. “And my husband?” demanded Jane, eagerly. “He too is free,” replied Bedingfeld; “and on the same terms as yourself. You are both at liberty to quit the Tower as soon as you think proper. Lord Guilford Dudley has already been apprised of her highness’s clemency, and will join you here in a few’ minutes.” Jane heard no more. The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this joyful intelligence, was too much for her; and uttering a faint cry, she sank senseless into the arms of the old knight. XXII.—OF JANE’S RETURN TO SION HOUSE; AND OF HER ENDEAVOURS TO DISSUADE HER HUSBAND FROM JOINING THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST QUEEN MARY. That night Lord Guilford Dudley and Jane, attended by Cholmondeley, who was included in the pardon, left the Tower, and repaired to Sion House. On finding herself once more restored to freedom, and an inmate of the house she loved so well, Jane was completely prostrated. Joy was more difficult to bear than affliction; and the firmness that had sustained her throughout her severest trials now altogether forsook her. But a few days brought back her calmness, and she poured forth her heartfelt thanks to that beneficent Being, who had restored her to so much felicity. Measureless content seemed hers, and as she traversed the long galleries and halls of the ancient mansion—as she wandered through its garden walks,—or by the river’s side—she felt that even in her proudest moment she had never known a tithe of the happiness she now experienced. Day after day flew rapidly by, and pursuing nearly the same course she had adopted in prison, she never allowed an hour to pass that was not profitably employed. But she observed with concern that her husband did not share her happiness. He grew moody and discontented, and became far more reserved than she had heretofore known him. Shunning her society, he secluded himself in his chamber, to which he admitted no one but Cholmondeley.