A dungeon in the Tower of London. There is only a solitary prisoner,--a man of fifty years of age, moderate in stature, but very slightly built, with hands and feet which would be small even in a woman. His face has never been handsome; there are deep furrows in the forehead, and something more than time has turned the brown hair grey, and given to the strongly-marked features that pensive, weary look, which his countenance always wears when in repose. Ask his name of his gaolers, and they will say it is "Sir Henry of Lancaster, the usurper;" but ask it of himself, and a momentary flash lights up the sunken eyes as he answers, "I am the King." Neither Pharisee nor Sadducee is Henry the Sixth. He is not a Lollard, simply because he never knew what Lollardism was. During his reign it lay dormant--the old Wycliffite plant violently uprooted, the new Lutheran shoots not yet visible above the ground. He was one of the very few men divinely taught without ostensible human agency,--within whom God is pleased to dwell by His Spirit at an age so early that the dawn of the heavenly instinct cannot be perceived. From the follies, the cruelties, and the iniquities of Romanism he shrank with that Heaven-born instinct; and by the dim flickering light which he had, he walked with God. His way led over very rough ground, full of rugged stones, on which his weary feet were bruised and torn. But it was the way Home. And now, to-night, on the 22nd of May, 1471, the prisoner is very worn and weary. He sits with a book before him--a small square volume, in illuminated Latin, with delicately-wrought borders, and occasional full-page illuminations; a Psalter, which came into his hands from those of another prisoner in like case with himself, for the book once belonged to Richard of Bordeaux [Note 2]. He turns slowly over the leaves, now and then reading a sentence aloud:--sentences all of which indicate a longing for home and rest. "`My soul is also sore vexed; but Thou, O Lord, how long?' "`Lord, how long wilt Thou look on? Rescue my soul from their destructions, mine only one from the lions.' "`And now, Lord, what wait I for?' "`Who shall give me wings like a dove?--and I will flee away, and be at rest!'" [Vulgate version]. At last the prisoner closed the book, and spoke in his own words to his heavenly Friend--the only friend whom he had in all the world, except the wife who was a helpless prisoner like himself. "Lord God, Thy will be done! Grant unto me patience to await Thy time; but, O fair Father, I lack rest!" And just as his voice ceased, the heavy door rolled back, and the messenger of rest came in.