“As there is a God above, it is truth!” he answered, passionately.  “Oh, canst thou not save him from this? is there no justice, no mercy?  Rise—­no, no; wherefore should I rise?” he continued, clinging convulsively to the knees of the princess, as she soothingly sought to raise him.  “I will kneel here till thou hast promised to plead for him with thy royal father, promised to use thine influence for his life.  Oh, canst thou once have loved him and yet hesitate for this?”

“I do not, I would not hesitate, unhappy boy,” replied the princess, tenderly.  “God in heaven knows, were there the slenderest chance of saving him, I would kneel at my father’s feet till pardon was obtained, but angered as he is now it would irritate him yet more.  Alas! alas! poor child, they told thee wrong who bade thee come to Joan for influence with Edward; I have none now, less than any of his court,” and the large tears fell from the eyes of the princess on the boy’s upturned face.

“Then let me plead for him; give me access to Edward.  Oh, I will so beseech, conjure him, he cannot, he will not say me nay.  Oh, if his heart be not of steel, he will have mercy on our wretchedness; he will pardon, he will spare my husband!”

The sob with which that last word was spoken shook that slight frame, till it bowed to the very ground, and the supporting arm of the countess alone preserved her from falling.

“Thy husband!—­Gracious heaven! who and what art thou?” exclaimed the earl, springing towards her, at the same instant that his wife raised her in her arras, and laid her on a couch beside them, watching with the soothing tenderness of a sister, till voice and strength returned.

“Alas!  I feared there was more in this deep agony than we might see,” she said; “but I imagined not, dared not imagine aught like this.  Poor unhappy sufferer, the saints be praised thou hast come to me! thy husband’s life I may not save, but I can give protection, tenderness to thee—­aye weep, weep, there is life, reason in those tears.”

The gentle voice of sympathy, of kindness, had come upon that overcharged heart, and broke the icy agony which had closed it to the relief of tears.  Mind and frame were utterly exhausted, and Agnes buried her face in the hands of the princess, which she had clasped convulsively within both hers, and wept, till the wildness of agony indeed departed, but not the horrible consciousness of the anguish yet to come.  Gradually her whole tale was imparted:  from the resolution to follow her betrothed even to England, and cling to him to the last; the fatal conclusion of that rite which had made them one; the anxiety and suffering which had marked the days spent in effecting a complete disguise, ere she could venture near him and obtain Hereford’s consent to her attending him as a page; the risks and hardships which had attended their journey to Berwick, till even a prison seemed a relief and rest; and then the sudden change, that