"You give way, you give way," said Richard with a slight touch of impatience. "However, there is good news abroad. This rash exiled earl of Richmond, whom you have heard of, doubtless, has seen his Breton ships--which the good doating duke now bitterly regrets he lent him--dispersed and broken by a heavy tempest; and he himself has slunk back to St. Maloes; but I have already limed some twigs for this light bird, which will yet stick to his feet; and he may find conveyance into England more speedy, though not so prosperous as that which he has been contriving for himself.--How now, Lovel? You look perilous grim, as if you and your cognizance had changed countenances." "I grieve to be the bearer of bad tidings, gracious sire," replied Lord Lovel, to whom these words were addressed, and who had entered the room the moment before. "I did not know that either of your graces were here, and was hastening to your closet." "But the news, the news," cried Richard, eagerly. "Heavy tidings grow doubly weighty by long carrying. Out with them, man. Is there a new insurrection in the west?--Has Richmond landed?--Speak, speak at once!" "I had better have your grace's private ear for a few minutes," replied Lord Lovel, in a low and very sad tone, at the same time giving a glance towards the queen. Her eyes were fixed upon his face, and she caught the expression at once. "My boy," she exclaimed. "He is worse. He is hopeless--I see it there--I see it there;" and she pointed with her hand to his face. Richard gazed at him in profound deathlike silence, with his brow knitted over his fine keen eyes, and the thin pale lip quivering fearfully. It was a terrible thing to see the traces of such deep and unwonted emotion on that powerful and commanding countenance; and Lovel felt almost afraid to proceed. Richard tried to speak, but, for the first time in life, his voice found no utterance; and all he could do was to make a vehement sign for his favourite to go on. "Alas, sire," said Level, in a tone of unfeigned anguish, "your worst fears are, I grieve to say--" "No, no," cried Richard, in a broken voice, grasping his arm as if he would have sunk the fingers into the flesh. "No, no, not the worst--not the worst!--He is very ill, you would say--the physicians have no hope--but we will find more, wiser, skilfuller! There are simples of great power--there are--there are--no, not dead, not dead--no, not dead, not dead!--Oh, Jesu!" and he fell headlong to the ground. The unhappy queen stood with her hands clasped together, her eyes bent upon the floor, not a trace of colour in her cheeks or lips. She moved not, she spoke not, she wept not, she uttered no cry, but remained standing like a statue where the words had reached her ears with all the terrible anguish of the moment concentrated in her heart.