Next to myself, I condemned those wretched girls for leaving Brandon to perish—­Brandon, to whom they both owed so much.  Their selfishness turned me against all womankind.

I did not dally this time.  I trusted to no Lady Jane nor Lady Mary.  I determined to go to the king at once and tell him all.  I did not care if the wretched Mary and Jane both had to marry the French king, or the devil himself.  I did not care if they and all the host of their perfidious sisterhood went to the nether side of the universe, there to remain forever.  I would retrieve my fault, in so far as it was retrievable, and save Brandon, who was worth them all put together.  I would tell Mary and Jane what I thought of them, and that should end matters between us.  I felt as I did toward them not only because of their treatment of Brandon, but because they had made me guilty of a grievous fault, for which I should never, so long as I lived, forgive myself.  I determined to go to the king, and go I did within five minutes of the time I heard that Brandon was yet in prison.

I found the king sitting alone at public dinner, and, of course, was denied speech with him.  I was in no humor to be balked, so I thrust aside the guards, and, much to everybody’s fright, for I was wild with grief, rage and despair, and showed it in every feature, rushed to the king and fell upon my knees at his feet.

“Justice, O king!” I cried, and all the courtiers heard.  “Justice, O king! for the worst used man and the bravest, truest soul that ever lived and suffered.”  Here the tears began to stream down my face and my voice choked in my throat.  “Charles Brandon, your majesty’s one-time friend, lies in a loathsome, rayless dungeon, condemned to death, as your majesty may know, for the killing of two men in Billingsgate Ward.  I will tell you all:  I should be thrust out from the society of decent men for not having told you before I left for France, but I trusted it to another who has proved false.  I will tell you all.  Your sister, the Lady Mary, and Lady Jane Bolingbroke were returning alone, after dark, from a visit to the soothsayer Grouche, of whom your majesty has heard.  I had been notified of the Lady Mary’s intended visit to him, although she had enjoined absolute secrecy upon my informant.  I could not go, being detained upon your majesty’s service—­it was the night of the ball to the ambassadors—­and I asked Brandon to follow them, which he did, without the knowledge of the princess.  Upon returning, the ladies were attacked by four ruffians, and would have met with worse than death had not the bravest heart and the best sword in England defended them victoriously against such fearful odds.  He left them at Bridewell without hurt or injury, though covered with wounds himself.  This man is condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, but I know not your majesty’s heart if he be not at once reprieved and richly rewarded.  Think, my king!  He saved the royal honor of your sister, who is so dear to you, and has suffered so terribly for his loyalty and bravery.  The day I left so hurriedly for France the Lady Mary promised she would tell you all and liberate this man who had so nobly served her; but she is a woman, and was born to betray.”