The girls made hasty preparations, and we all started back to Greenwich that Mary might tell the king.  On the road over, I stopped at Newgate to tell Brandon that the princess would soon have him out, knowing how welcome liberty would be at her hands; but I was not permitted to see him.

I swallowed my disappointment, and thought it would be only a matter of a few hours’ delay—­the time spent in riding down to Greenwich and sending back a messenger.  So, light-hearted enough at the prospect, I soon joined the girls, and we cantered briskly home.

After waiting a reasonable time for Mary to see the king, I sought her again to learn where and from whom I should receive the order for Brandon’s release, and when I should go to London to bring him.

What was my surprise and disgust when Mary told me she had not yet seen the king—­that she had waited to “eat, and bathe, and dress,” and that “a few moments more or less could make no difference.”

“My God! your highness, did I not tell you that the man who saved your life and honor—­who is covered with wounds received in your defense, and almost dead from loss of blood, spilled that you might be saved from worse than death—­is now lying in a rayless dungeon, a place of frightful filth, such as you would not walk across for all the wealth of London Bridge; is surrounded by loathsome, creeping things that would sicken you but to think of; is resting under a charge whose penalty is that he be hanged, drawn and quartered?  And yet you stop to eat and bathe and dress.  In God’s name, Mary Tudor, of what stuff are you made?  If he had waited but one little minute; had stopped for the drawing of a breath; had held back for but one faltering thought from the terrible odds of four swords to one, what would you now be?  Think, princess, think!”

I was a little frightened at the length to which my feeling had driven me, but Mary took it all very well, and said slowly and absent-mindedly: 

“You are right; I will go at once; I despise my selfish neglect.  There is no other way; I have racked my brain—­there is no other way.  It must be done, and I will go at once and do it.”

“And I will go with you,” said I.

“I do not blame you,” she said, “for doubting me, since I have failed once; but you need not doubt me now.  It shall be done, and without delay, regardless of the cost to me.  I have thought and thought to find some other way to liberate him, but there is none; I will go this instant.”

“And I will go with you, Lady Mary,” said I, doggedly.

She smiled at my persistency, and took me by the hand, saying, “Come!”

We at once went off to find the king, but the smile had faded from Mary’s face, and she looked as if she were going to execution.  Every shade of color had fled, and her lips were the hue of ashes.

We found the king in the midst of his council, with the French ambassadors, discussing the all-absorbing topic of the marriage treaty; and Henry, fearing an outbreak, refused to see the princess.  As usual, opposition but spurred her determination, so she sat down in the ante-room and said she would not stir until she had seen the king.