This person was Sir Thomas Lake, Secretary of State.

The table at which he sat was strewn over with official documents and papers.  He was not, however, examining any of them, but had just broken the seal of a private packet which he had received from his wife, when an usher entered, and intimated that a young maiden, who was without, solicited a moment’s audience.  The request would have been refused, if the man had not gone on to say that he believed the applicant was the daughter of the crazy Puritan, who had threatened the King’s life on the previous day.  On hearing this, Sir Thomas consented to see her, and she was admitted accordingly.

As soon as the usher had retired, Aveline unmuffled herself, and, cold and apathetic as he was, Sir Thomas could not help being struck by her surpassing beauty, unimpaired even by the affliction under which she laboured; and he consequently softened in some degree the customary asperity of his tones in addressing her.

“Who are you, maiden, and what seek you?” he demanded, eyeing her with curiosity.

“I am daughter to the unfortunate Hugh Calveley, now a prisoner in the palace,” she replied.

“I am sorry to hear it,” rejoined Sir Thomas, resuming his habitually severe expression; “for you are the daughter of a very heinous offender.  The enormity of Hugh Calveley’s crime, which is worse than parricide, deprives him of all human sympathy and compassion.  In coming to me you do not, I presume, intend to weary me with prayers for mercy; for none is deserved, and none will be shown.  For my own part, I shall not utter a word in mitigation of the dreadful sentence certain to be pronounced upon him; nor shall I advise the slightest clemency to be shown him on the part of his Majesty.  Such an offender cannot be too severely punished.  I do not say this,” he continued, somewhat softening his harshness, “to aggravate the distress and shame you naturally feel; but I wish to check at once any hopes you may have formed.  Yet though I have no pity for him, I have much for you, since, doubtless, you are innocent of all knowledge of your father’s atrocious design—­happily prevented.  And I would therefore say to you, shut out all feelings for him from your heart.  The man who raises his hand against his sovereign cuts off by the act all ties of kindred and love.  Affection is changed to abhorrence; and such detestation does his horrible offence inspire, that those of his own blood are bound to shun him, lest he derive comfort and consolation from their presence.  Thus considered, you are no longer his daughter, for he has himself severed the links between you.  You no longer owe him filial duty and regard, for to such he is no more entitled.  Leave him to his fate; and, if possible, for ever obliterate his memory from your breast.”