Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Sir Payan Wileton had gone through life with fearless daring; calculating, but never hesitating; keen-sighted of danger, but never timid. From youth he had divested himself of the three great fears which generally affect mankind: the fear of the world's opinion, the fear of his own conscience, and the fear of death; and, thus endued with much bad courage, he had attempted and succeeded in many things which would have frightened a timid man, and failed with an irresolute one. And yet, as we have seen, by one of those strange contradictions of which human nature is full, Sir Payan, though an unbeliever in the bright truths of religion, was credulous to many of the darkest superstitions of the age in which he lived.

On such a mind, anything that smacked of supernatural presentiment was likely to take the firmest hold; and, on the morning after Lady Constance had, by his means and by his instigation, effected her flight from Richmond, he rose early from a troubled sleep, overshadowed by a deep despondency, which had never till then hung upon him. Before he was yet dressed, the news was brought him that one of his men had returned with the boat, and that the other had been arrested in the king's name. He felt his good fortune had passed away; an internal voice seemed to tell him that it was at an end; but yet he omitted no measures of security, quitting the capital without loss of time, and leaving such instructions with the porter as he deemed most likely to blind the eyes of Wolsey; hoping that the servant, whose life was in his power, would not betray him, yet prepared, if he did, boldly to repel the charge, and by producing evidence to invalidate the other's testimony, to cast the accusation back upon his head.

But still, from that moment Sir Payan was an altered being; and though many days passed by without anything occurring to disturb his repose; though the king's progress towards Dover, without any notice having been taken of his participation in Lady Constance's escape, led him to believe that fear had kept the servant faithful; yet still Sir Payan remained in a state of gloom and lassitude, that raised many a marvel amongst those around him.

Wandering through the woods that surrounded his mansion, he passed hours and hours in deep, inactive, bitter meditation; finding no consolation in his own heart, no hope in the future, and no repose in the past; and, why he knew not, despairing where he had never despaired, trembling where he had never known fear.

Often he questioned himself upon the strange depression of his mind; and the more he did so, the more he became convinced that it was a supernatural warning of approaching fate. Many were the resolutions that he made to shake it off, to struggle still, to seek the court, and urge his claim on the estates of Constance de Grey, as he would have done in former days; but in vain: a leaden power lay heavy upon his heart, and crushed all its usual energies; and the only effort he could make was to send out servants in every direction to seek Sir Cesar the astrologer, weakly hoping to brace up his relaxed confidence by some predictions of success. But the old man was not easily to be found. No one knew his abode, and, ever strange and erratic in his motions, he seemed now agitated by some extraordinary impulse, so that even when they had once found his track, the servants of Sir Payan had often to trace him to ten or twelve houses in the course of a day. Sometimes it was in the manor of the peer, sometimes in the cottage of the peasant, that they heard of him; but in none did he seem to sojourn for above an hour, hurrying on wildly to the dwelling of some other amongst the many that he knew in all classes.

At length they overtook him on the road near Sandgate, and delivered Sir Payan's message; whereupon, without any reply, he turned his horse and rode towards Chilham, where he arrived in the evening. Springing to the ground without any appearance of fatigue, the old man sought Sir Payan in the park, to which the servants said he had retired; and, winding through the various long alleys, found him at length walking backwards and forwards, with his arms crossed on his bosom and his eyes fixed upon the ground. The evening sunshine was streaming brightly upon the spot, pouring a mellow misty light through the western trees, on the tall dark figure of Sir Payan, who, bending down his head, paced along with gloomy slowness, like some bad spirit oppressed and tormented by the smile of heaven.

It was a strange sight to see his meeting with Sir Cesar; both were pale and haggard; for some cause, only known to himself, had worn the keen features of the astrologer till the bones and cartilages seemed starting through the skin; and Sir Payan's ashy cheek had lately acquired a still more deadly hue than it usually wore. Both, too, looked wild and fearful; the keen black eyes of the old man showing with a terrific brightness in his thin and livid face, and the stern features of Sir Payan appearing full of a sort of ferocious light, which his attendants had remarked, ever since he had been overthrown in the tilt by the lance of Sir Osborne. Meeting thus, in the full yellow sunshine, while Sir Cesar fixed his usual intense and scrutinising glance upon the countenance of the other, and Sir Payan strove to receive him with a smile that but mocked the lips it shone upon, they looked like two beings of another world, met for the first time in upper air, to commune of things long past.

"Well, unhappy man," said Sir Cesar at length, "what seekest thou with me?"

"That I am unhappy," replied Sir Payan, knitting his brow, as he saw that little consolation was to be expected from the astrologer, "I do not deny; and it is to know why I am unhappy that I have asked you to come hither."

"You are unhappy," answered Sir Cesar, "because you have plundered the widow and the orphan, because you have wronged the friendless and the weak, because you have betrayed the confident and the generous. You are unhappy because there is not one in the wide world that loves you, and because you even despise, and hate, and reprobate yourself."

"Old man! old man!" cried Sir Payan, half unsheathing his dagger, "beware, beware! Those men only," he added, pushing back the weapon into its sheath, "ought to be unhappy that are unsuccessful; the rest is all a bugbear set up by the weak to frighten away the strong. But I have been successful, am successful. Why then am I unhappy?"

"Because your success is at an end," replied the astrologer: "because you tremble to your fall; because your days are numbered, and late remorse is gnawing your heart in spite of your vain boasting. Nay, lay not your hand on the hilt of your dagger! Over me, murderer, you have no power! That dagger took the life of one that had never wronged you. Remember the rout at Taunton; remember the youth murdered the night after he surrendered!" Sir Payan trembled like an aspen leaf while the old man spoke. "Yes, murderer!" continued Sir Cesar; "though you thought the deed hid in the bowels of the earth, I know it all. That hand slew all that was dearest to me on earth!--the child that unhappy fortune forced me to leave upon this cursed shore; and long, long ago should his fate have been avenged in your blood, had not I seen, had not I known, that heaven willed it otherwise. I have waited patiently for the hour that is now come; I have broken your bread, and I have drunk of your wine; but while I did so, I have seen you gathering curses on your head, and accumulating sins to sink you to perdition, and that has taught me to endure. I would not have saved you one hour of crime, I would not have robbed my revenge of one single sin--no, not for an empire! But I have watched you go on, gloriously, triumphantly, in evil and in wickedness, till heaven can bear no more; till you have eaten up your future; and soon, with all your crimes upon your head, hated, despised, condemned by all mankind, your black soul shall be parted from your body, and my eyes shall see you die."

Sir Payan had listened with varied emotions as the old man spoke. Surprise, remorse, and fear had been the first; but gradually the more tempestuous feelings of his nature hurried away the rest, and, rage gaining mastery of all, he drew his poniard and sprang upon Sir Cesar. But in the very act, as his arm was raised to strike, he was caught by two powerful men, who threw him back upon the ground and disarmed him; one of them exclaiming, "Ho, ho! we have just come in time. Sir Payan Wileton, you are attached in the king's name. Lo, here is the warrant for your apprehension. You must come with us, sir, to Calais."

One would attempt in vain to describe the rage that convulsed the form of Sir Payan Wileton, more especially when he beheld Sir Cesar smile upon him with a look of triumphant satisfaction.

"Seize him!" exclaimed he, with furious violence, pointing to the astrologer; "seize him, if you love your king and your country! He is a marked and obnoxious traitor. I impeach him, and you do not your duty if you let him escape; or are you his confederates, and come up to prevent my punishing him for the treasons he has just acknowledged?"

"Sir Payan Wileton," replied the sergeant-at-arms, "this passion is all in vain. I am sent here with a warrant from the king's privy council to attach you for high treason; but I have no authority to arrest any one else."

"But I am a magistrate," cried the baffled knight; "let him not escape, I enjoin you, till I have had time to commit him. He is a traitor, I say, and if you seize him not, you art the king's enemies."

"Attached for high treason, sir, you are no longer a magistrate," replied the sergeant. "At all events, I do not hold myself justified in apprehending anybody against whom I have no warrant, more especially when I found you raising your hand illegally against the very person's life whom you now accuse. I can take no heed of the matter: you must come."

"He shall be satisfied," said Sir Cesar. "Venomless serpent! I will follow thee now till thy last hour. But think not that thou canst hurt me, for thy power has gone from thee; and though wicked as a demon, thou art weak as a child. I know that we are doomed to pass the same gate, but not to journey on the same road. Lead on, sergeant; I will go on with you; and then, if this bad man have aught to urge against me, let him do it."

"Go if you will, sir," replied the officer; "but remember, you act according to your own pleasure; I make no arrest in your case: you are free to come with us or to stay, as you think fit."

Sir Payan was now led back to the house, which was in possession of the king's archers; and as he passed through his own hall, with a burning heart, the hasty glance that he cast around amongst his servants showed him at once, that though there were none to pity or befriend, there were many full ready to betray. Then rushed upon his mind the accusations that they might pile upon his head, now that they saw him sinking below the stream. The certainty of death; the dread of something after death; doubts of his own scepticism; the innate, all-powerful conviction of a future state--a state growing dreadfully perceptible to his eye as he approached the brink of that yawning gulf which his own acts had peopled with strange fears; all that he had scoffed at, all that he had despised, now assumed a new and fearful character: even the world's opinion, the world's contemned opinion, came across his thought: that there was not one heart on all the earth would mourn his end, that hatred and abhorrence would go with him to the grave, and that his memory would only live with infamy in the records of crime and punishment. Burying his face in his hands, he sat in deep, despairing, agonising silence while his horse was being prepared, and while the officer put his seal upon the various doors which he thought it necessary to secure.

A few hours brought the whole party to Dover, and the next day saw their arrival at Calais; but by that time the court had removed to Guisnes; and the sergeant, having no orders to bring his prisoner farther, sent forward a messenger to announce his arrival and demand instructions.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost any portion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first of June, three days after we last left her, at which period we again take up her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage between Whitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent old man whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain and danger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were, he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state of stupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, and only wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morning fulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of a good monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching the sweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since their shipwreck.

Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawn one of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradford having tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank which had brought herself to shore; but still through the casement, notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breath of the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of the treacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pause in the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light children of the summer.

The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with a sweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice of creation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all things seemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal being might be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from all touch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked like an angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all in white, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she looked upon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.

In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed, regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting those who hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleep like that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes death as recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottage being left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had gone to seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby had stolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom the cottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length, however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the features of the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice, "Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."

"I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleeping very sweetly. I hope you feel better."

"It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "I am dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew the curtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed to give him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright. I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds; but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter and sweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with such splendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."

The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the old man's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, the inevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if the avenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast his dark shadow over him for ever.

"Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and broken efforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In his mercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall I be in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have a fear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide and desolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: God is your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, nor think that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he that created it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallest grain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, and guides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end. Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God's blessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom ever permits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved when living, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."

His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and his head fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's end was approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, he poured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightly motioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, and fixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord, I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedily from the power of death, O Lord of life!"

The sounds gradually ceased, but yet his lips continued to move; his lips lost their motion, but his eyes were fixed, full of hope, upon the cross; a film came over them; it passed away, and the light beamed up again--shone brightly for a moment--waned--vanished--and all was death. The eyes were still fixed upon the cross, but that bright thing, life, was there no more. To look at them, no one could say what was gone between that minute and the one before; and yet it was evident that they were now but dust: the light was extinguished, the wine was poured out, and it was but the broken lamp, the empty urn, that remained to go down into the tomb.

Constance closed his eyes, and weeping bitterly, knelt down with the old monk, and joined in the prayer that he addressed to heaven. She then rose, and seated herself by all that remained of her dead friend, feeling alone in all the world, solitary, friendless, desolate; and straining her sweet eyes upon the cold, unresponsive countenance of the dead, she seemed bitterly to drink to the dregs the cup of hopelessness which that sight offered.

No one spoke. The monk himself was silent, seeming to think that the prayer he had offered to the Deity was the only fitting language for the presence of the dead; when a sound was heard without, and the door, gently opening, admitted the form of Jekin Groby. The good clothier thought the old man still slept, as when he had left the cottage, and advanced on tiptoe for fear of waking him; but the lifted hand of the monk, the streaming eyes of Constance, and the cold, rigid stiffness of the face before him, warned him of what had happened; and pausing suddenly, he clasped his hands with a look of unaffected sorrow. "Good God!" cried he, "he is dead! Alas the day!" Constance's tears streamed afresh. "Lady," said the worthy man, in a kindly tone, "take comfort! He is gone to a better place than we have here, poor hapless souls! And surely, if all were as well fitted for that place as he was, we should have little cause to fear our death, and our gossips little cause to weep. Take comfort, sweet lady! take comfort! Our God is too good for us to murmur when he cuts our measure short."

There was something in the homely consolation of the honest Englishman that touched Constance to the heart, and yet she could not refrain from weeping even more than before.

"Nay, nay, dear lady," continued Jekin, affected almost to tears himself; "you must come away from here. I cannot bear to see you weep so; and though I am but a poor clothier, and little fitted to put myself in his place that is gone, I will never leave you till I see you safe. Indeed I won't! Come, lady, into the other cottage hard by, and we will send some one to watch here in your place. Lord, Lord! to think how soon a fellow-creature is gone! Sure I thought to find him better when I came back. Come, lady, come!"

"Perhaps I had better," replied Constance, drying her tears. "My cares for him are useless; yet, though I murmur not at God's will, I must e'en weep, for I have lost as good a friend, and the world has lost as good a man, as ever it possessed. But I will go; for it is in vain to stay here and encourage unavailing grief." She then addressed a few sentences to the monk in French, thanking him for his charitable offices towards her dead friend, and begging him to remain there till she could send some one to watch the body; adding, that if he would come after that to the adjoining cottage, she would beg him to convey to his convent a small gift on her part.

The monk bowed his head, and promised to obey; and Constance, giving one last look to the inanimate form of the excellent being she had just lost, followed Jekin Groby to the cottage hard by, where, begging to be left alone, she once more burst into tears, and let both her sorrow and despondency have way, feeling that sort of oppression at her heart which can be relieved but by weeping.

It is needless to follow farther such sad scenes; to tell the blunt grief of Bradford, when he returned and found that his errand had been in vain; or to describe the funeral of good Dr. Wilbraham, which took place the next day (for so custom required) in the little cemetery of Whitesand Bay.

Immediately this was over, Lady Constance prepared to set out for Boulogne, hoping to find a refuge in the heart of France till she had time to consider and execute some plan for her future conduct. We have twice said, that the sailor, in tying her to the plank on which she had floated from the shipwrecked vessel, had fastened to the end of the board nearest her feet one of her own leathern cases, for the purpose of keeping her head raised above the water; and in this, as it luckily happened, were all the jewels and the money which she had brought with her from London.

It would doubtless have rendered her situation much more critical and interesting if she had been deprived of all such resources; but as the fact was so, it is necessary to state it. No difficulty, therefore, seemed likely to present itself in her journey to her own estates, except that which might arise in procuring a litter to convey her on her way, or in meeting with some female attendant willing to accompany her. The latter of these was soon done away with; for the daughter of the cottagers where she had lodged, a gay, good-humoured Picarde, gladly undertook the post of waiting-woman to the sweet lady, whose gentleness had won them all; and Bradford, who, from a soldier, a sailor, a shipwright, and a Rochester rioter, had now become a squire of dames, was despatched to Boulogne to see if he could buy or hire a litter and horses.

In the midst of all these proceedings, poor Jekin Groby was sadly agitated by many contending feelings. In his first fit of sympathy with Constance on the death of Dr. Wilbraham, he had, as we have seen, promised to accompany her to the end of her journey, whithersoever it might be; but the thoughts of dear little England, and his own fireside, and his bales of cloth, and his bags of angels, called him vehemently across the Channel, while curiosity, with a certain touch of mercantile calculation, pulled him strongly towards the court at Calais. Notwithstanding, he resolved, above all things, to act handsomely, as he said, towards the lady; and accordingly he accompanied Bradford to Boulogne, to ascertain if he could by any way get off trudging after her the Lord knew where, as he expressed it, though he vowed he was very willing to go if he could be of any service.

After the sailor and his companion had been absent about six hours, Constance began to be impatient, and proceeded to the door of the cottage to see if she could perceive them coming. Gazing for a few minutes on the road to Boulogne, she beheld, rising above the brow of the hill before her, a knight's pennon, and presently half-a-dozen spears appeared bristling up behind it. Judging that it was some accidental party proceeding towards Whitesand Bay, Constance retired into the cottage, and was not a little surprised when she heard the horses halt before the door. In a moment after, a gallant cavalier, in peaceful guise, armed only with his sword and dagger, entered the hut, and, doffing his plumed mortier to the lady, with a low inclination of the head, he advanced towards her, saying in French, "Have I the honour of speaking to the noble Lady de Grey, Countess of Boissy and the Val de Marne?"

"The same, sir knight," replied the lady. "To what, may I ask, do I owe the honour of your presence?"

"His highness Francis King of France, now in the city of Boulogne," replied the knight, "hearing that a lady, and his vassal, though born an English subject, had been shipwrecked on this shore, has chosen me for the pleasing task of inviting, in his name, the Countess de Boissy to repair to his royal court, not as a sovereign commanding the homage of his vassal, but as a gracious and a noble friend, offering service and good-will. His highness's sister, also, the Princess Marguerite of Alençon, has sent her own litter for your convenience, with such escort as may suit your quality."

Constance could only express her thanks. Had she possessed the power of choice, she would of course have preferred a thousand times to have retired to the Val de Marne, without her coming being known to the French king or his court, till such time, at least, as the meeting between him and the King of England had taken place. However, as it was known, she could not refuse to obey, and she signified her readiness to accompany the French knight, begging him merely to wait till the return of a person she had sent to Boulogne for a litter.

"He will not return, lady," replied the chevalier. "It was through his search for a litter at Boulogne, where none are to be had, all being bought for the court's progress to Ardres, that his highness became acquainted with your arrival within his kingdom."

The knight was proceeding to inform her of the circumstances which had occurred, when the quick sound of horses' feet was heard without, joined to the clanging of arms, the jingling of spurs and trappings, and various rough cries in the English tongue.

"Have her! but I will have her, by the Lord!" cried a voice near the door; and in a moment after, a knight, armed at all points, strode into the cottage. "How now! how now!" cried he; "what is all this? Ah, Monsieur de Bussy," he continued, changing his language to broken, abominable French, "what are you doing with this lady?"

"I come, Sir John Hardacre," answered the Frenchman, "to invite her to the court of Francis of France, whose vassal the lady is."

"And I come," replied the Englishman, "to claim her for Henry King of England, whose born subject she is, and ward of the crown; and so I will have her, and carry her to Guisnes, as I am commanded."

"That depends upon circumstances, sir," answered the Frenchman, offended at the tone of the other. "You are governor of Calais, but you do not command here. You are off the English pale, sir; and I say that unless the lady goes with you willingly and by preference, you shall not take her."

"I shall not!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Who the devil shall stop me?"

"That will I," answered the French knight; "and I tell you so to your beard."

The Englishman laid his hand upon his sword, and the Frenchman was not slack to follow his example; but Constance interposed. "Hold, hold, gentlemen!" cried she; "I am not worthy of such contention. Monsieur de Bussy, favour me by offering every expression of my humble duty to his highness your noble king; and show him that I intended instantly to have obeyed his commands, and followed you to his court, but that I am compelled, against my will, to do otherwise. Sir John Hardacre, I am ready to accompany you."

"If such be your will, fair lady," replied the French knight, "I have nothing but to execute your charge. However, I must repeat, that without your full consent you shall not be taken from French ground, or I am no true knight."

An angry replication trembled on the lip of the English captain, but Constance stopped its utterance by once more declaring her willingness to go; and the French officer, bowing low, thrust back his sword into the sheath, and left the cottage, somewhat out of humour with the event of his expedition.

When he and his followers had ridden away, Sir John Hardacre called up a lady's horse, which one of his men-at-arms led by the bridle; and after permitting Constance to make some change of her apparel, and to pay the good folks of the cottage for her entertainment, he placed her in the saddle, and holding the bridle himself, led her away at a quick pace towards Guisnes. He was a rough old soldier, somewhat hardened by long military service; but the beauty and gentleness of his fair prisoner (for such indeed may we consider poor Constance to have been) somewhat softened his acerbity; and after riding on for near an hour in silence, during which he revolved at least twenty ways of addressing the lady, without pleasing himself with any, he began by a somewhat bungling excuse, both for his errand and his manner of executing it.

"I suppose, sir," replied Constance, coldly, "that you have done your duty. Whether you have done it harshly or not is for you to consider."

This quite put a stop to all the knight's intentions of conversation, and did not particularly soothe his humour; so that for many miles along the road he failed not every moment to turn round his head, and vent his spleen upon his men in various high-seasoned curses, for faults which they might or might not have committed, as the case happened; the knight's powers of objurgation not only extending to the cursing itself, but also to supplying the cause.

It was nearly seven o'clock when they began to approach the little town of Guisnes, but at that season of the year the full light of day was still shining upon all the objects round about; and Constance might perceive, as they rode up, all the bustle, and crowding, and idle activity caused by the arrival of the court.

Her heart sank when she saw it, and thought of all she might there have to endure. Under any other circumstances, however, it would have been a gay and a pleasing sight; so full of life and activity, glitter and show, was everything that met the eye.

To the southward of the town of Guisnes, upon the large open green that extended on the outside of the walls, were to be seen a vast number of tents, of all kinds and colours, with a multitude of busy human beings employed in raising fresh pavilions on every open space, or in decorating those already spread with streamers, pennons, and banners, of all the bright hues under the sun. Long lines of horses and mules loaded with armour or baggage, and ornamented with gay ribbons, to put them in harmony with the scene, were winding about, all over the plain, some proceeding towards the town, some seeking the tents of their several lords; while, mingled amongst them, appeared various bands of soldiers, on horseback and on foot, with the rays of the declining sun glancing upon the heads of their bills and lances, and, together with the white cassock and broad red cross, marking them out from all the other objects. Here and there, too, might be seen a party of knights and gentlemen cantering over the plain, and enjoying the bustle of the scene, or standing in separate groups, issuing their orders for the erection and garnishing of their tents; while couriers, and pursuivants, and heralds, in all their gay dresses, mingled with mule-drivers, lacqueys, and peasants, armourers, pages, and tent-stretchers, made up the living part of the landscape.

Behind lay the town of Guisnes, with the forest at its back; and a good deal nearer, the castle, with its protecting guns pointed over the plain; but the most striking object, and that which instantly caught the eye, was a building raised immediately in front of the citadel, on which all that art could devise, or riches could procure, had been lavished, to render it a palace fit for the luxurious king who was about to make it his temporary residence.

From the distance at which they were when it first struck her sight, Constance could only perceive that it was a vast and splendid edifice, apparently square, and seeming to offer a façade of about four hundred feet on every side, while the sun, reflected from the gilding with which it was covered, and the immense quantity of glass that it contained, rendered it like some great ornament of gold enriched with brilliants.

Although her heart was sad, and nothing that she saw tended to dispel its gloom, she could not refrain from gazing round with a half-curious, half-anxious glance upon all the gay objects that surrounded her; almost fearing to be recognised by some one who had known her at the court, now that she was led along as a kind of prisoner; a single woman amidst a band of rude soldiers. Sir John Hardacre, however, spurred on towards the bridge, which was nearly impassable from the number of beasts of burden and their drivers by which it was covered; and standing on but little ceremony with his fellow-lieges, he dashed through the midst of them all, cursing one, and striking another, and overturning a third, much to Constance's horror and dismay. Having reached the other side, and created by his haste as much confusion and discomfort as he could in his passage, the surly captain slackened his pace, muttering something about dignity, and turned his rein towards the temporary palace of the king. Proceeding slowly amidst a multitude, many of whom had seen her before, and whose notice she was very willing to escape, Constance's only resource was to fix her eyes upon the palace, and to busy herself in the contemplation of its splendour.

Raised upon a high platform, it was not only visible from every part of the plain, but itself commanded a view of the whole gay scene below, with its tents and its multitudes, standing as a sort of nucleus to all the magnificence around.

Before the gate to which Sir John Hardacre took his way, and which was itself a massy arch, flanked by two towers raised upon the platform, there stood two objects not unworthy of remark, as exemplifying the tastes of the day: the one was a magnificent fountain, richly wrought with arches and arabesques, painted in fine gold and blue, supporting a figure of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, over whose head appeared inscribed, in letters of gold, "Faites bonne chère qui voudra." No unmeaning invitation, for the fountain below ceased not to pour forth three streams of various coloured wines, supplied by reservoirs in the interior of the palace. On the other side of the gate were seen four golden lions supporting a pillar of bronze, round the shaft of which twined up various gilt wreaths, interlaced together; while on the summit stood a statue of Venus's "purblind son and heir," pointing his arrows at those who approached the gate.

Nevertheless, it was not on the charmed cup of the one, or the bended bow of the other chicken deity, that the battlemented arch above mentioned relied for defence; for in the several windows were placed gigantic figures of men in armour, apparently in the act of hurling down enormous rocks upon the head of whatever venturous stranger should attempt to pass the prescribed bound. At the same time appeared round about various goodly paintings of the demigods of story: the Herculeses, the Theseuses, the Alexanders, fabulous and historical; while, showing strangely enough in such company, many a fat porter and yeoman of the lodge loitered about in rich liveries, as familiar with the gods and goddesses as if they had been born upon Olympus and swaddled in Tempé.

At the flight of steps which led to this gate Sir John Hardacre dismounted, and lifting Lady Constance from her horse, passed on into the inner court of the palace, which would indeed have been not only splendid, but elegant, had it not been for a few instances of the same refined taste which we have just noticed. The four inner faces of the building were perfectly regular, consisting of two stories, the lower one of which was almost entirely of glass, formed into plain and bow windows alternately, each separated from the other by a slight column of gold, and surrounded by a multitude of arabesques and garlands. Exactly opposite to the gate appeared a vestibule, thrown a little forward from the building, and surmounted by four large bow windows, supported on trimmers, the corbels of which represented a thousand strange gilt faces, looking out from a screen of olive branches, cast in lead and painted green; while various tall statues in silver armour were ranged on each side, as guards to the entrance.

It was towards this sort of hall that Sir John Hardacre led poor Constance de Grey, to whose heart all the gaiety and splendour of the scene seemed but to communicate a more chilling sensation of friendless loneliness; while the very gaze and whispering of the royal servants, who had all known of her flight, and now witnessed her return, made the quick blood mount into her beautiful cheek, as she was hurried along by the brutal soldier, without any regard to her feelings or compassion for her fears.

"You must wait here, Mistress Constance," said he, having led her into the vestibule, which was full of yeomen and grooms, "while I go and tell the right reverend father the lord cardinal that I have brought you."

"Here!" exclaimed Constance, casting her eyes around; "surely you do not mean me to wait here amongst the servants?"

"Why, where would you go?" demanded he, roughly: "I've no other place to put you. Wait here, wait here, and mind you don't run away again."

Constance could support no more, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a violent flood of tears. At that moment a voice that she knew struck her ear. "This to my cousin, sir!" exclaimed Lord Darby, who had heard what passed as he descended a flight of stairs which led away to the left; "this to my cousin, Sir John Hardacre! You would do better to jump off the donjon of Rochester Castle than to leave her here with lacqueys and footboys."

"And why should I not?" demanded the soldier, his eyes flashing fire. "Mind your own affairs, my Lord Darby, and let me mind mine."

"You are an unfeeling old villain, sir!" answered the earl, passing him and taking Constance by the hand. "Yes, sir! stare your fill! I say you are an unfeeling villain, and neither knight nor gentleman."

The soldier laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of its sheath. "Knock him down! knock him down!" cried a dozen voices. "The precincts of the court! out with him! Have his hand off!" Sir John Hardacre thrust his weapon back into the sheath, gazing, however, grimly around, as if he would fain have used it upon some one.

"Your brutal violence, sir," said Lord Darby, "will bring upon you, if you heed not, a worse punishment than I can inflict; yet you will not find me, in a proper place, unwilling to give you a lesson on what is due to a lady. Come, Constance, I will lead you to her highness, where you will meet, I am sure, a kind reception. You, sir, do your errand to my lord cardinal, who shall be informed by me of your noble and knightly treatment of the Lady de Grey."

Thus saying, he led Constance through a long corridor to an ante-chamber, wherein stood two of the queen's pages. Here Lord Darby paused, and sent one of the attendants to request an audience, taking the opportunity of the time they waited to soothe the mind of his fair cousin by informing her of all that had passed in her absence, and assuring her that the queen had ever been her warmest defender.

All the news that he gave her, yof course, took a heavy weight from Constance's mind; and drying her eyes, she congratulated him gladly on his approaching marriage, and would fain, very fain, have asked if he could give her any such consolatory information in regard to Darnley; but the earl had never once mentioned his name, and she knew not how to begin the subject herself. While considering, and hesitating whether to ask boldly or not, the queen's page returned and ushered them to her presence. Constance was still much agitated, and even the kind and dignified sweetness, the motherly tenderness, with which Katherine received her--a tenderness which she had not known for so long--overcame her, and she wept as much as if she had been most unhappy.

The queen understood it all, and sending Lord Darby away, she soon won Constance to her usual placid mood; and then, questioning her of all the dangers and sorrows she had undergone, she gave her the best of all balms, sympathy; trembling at her account of the shipwreck, and melted even to tears by the death of the good clergyman.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Many were the anxious eyes turned towards the sky on the morning of the seventh of June, the day appointed for the meeting of the two kings of France and England; for some inauspicious clouds had ushered in the dawn, and several of those persons who take a delight in prognosticating evil, whenever they can find occasion; who enjoy mingling the sour with whatever is sweet in life--in short, the lemon-squeezers of society--had taken care to affirm that they had felt several drops of rain, and to prophesy that it would pour before night. To put their vaticinations out of joint, however, the jolly summer sun came like a cleanly housemaid, towards eight o'clock, and with his broom of rays swept all the dirty clouds from the floor of heaven. By this time the bustle of preparation had begun at the town of Guisnes. All was in activity amongst the tents, and many a lord and gentleman was already on his horse arraying his men in order of battle under the walls of the castle, from the gates of which presently issued forth the archer-guard of the king of England, and took the front of the array. Not long after, Lord Essex, the earl marshal, appeared on the plain, and riding along the line of foot, gave the strictest orders to the various officers for maintaining regularity and tranquillity through the day; well knowing that the excited hilarity of such occasions often creates more serious evils than do infinitely worse feelings. Another cause, however, seemed likely to have interrupted the general good-humour; for, in the midst of his injunctions to maintain order and propriety of demeanour towards their French allies, an officer was seen spurring at full speed from the side of Ardres, and as he rode up, it was very evident by his countenance that the good captain, Richard Gibson, was not the best pleased man in the world. All eyes were turned upon him, and a dead silence ensued amidst the archers, while the earl demanded, "Why! how now, Gibson? what is the matter?"

"So please you, my lord," replied the officer, "the four pennons of white and green, which, by your command, I set up on the edge of the hill, above the valley of Andern, have been vilely thrown down by the French lord châtelaine, who says, that as the French have none on the other hill, he wills not that we have any either."

A loud murmuring made itself heard at this news amongst the footmen; and one of the young gallants, riding near the earl, put spurs to his horse, as if to ride away to the scene of the dispute.

"Silence!" cried the earl, over whose cheek also an angry flush had passed at the first, but who speedily recovered his temper. "Brian, come back! come back, I say, sir! let not a man stir!"

"What! must we stand tamely and be insulted by the French?" cried the youth, unwillingly reining in his horse.

"They do not insult us, sir," replied Lord Essex, wisely determined not to let any trifling punctilio disturb the harmony of the meeting, yet knowing how difficult it was to rule John Bull from his surly humour. "They do not insult us. The pennons were set up for their convenience, to show them the place of meeting, which is within the English pale. If they choose to be such fools as to risk missing the way, and go a mile round, why, let them; we shall but laugh at them when they come."

The matter thus turned off, he whispered a few words to Gibson, and sending him back to the vale of Andern, proceeded, with the aid of heralds and other officers at arms, to arrange all the ceremonies of the march. However, various were the reports that spread amongst the people concerning the intentions of the French, some declaring openly that they believed they intended to surround the field with a great force, and take the king of England prisoner. Others shook the wise head, and implied much more than they ventured to say; and many a poor rogue, amongst those who "talk of court news as if they were God's spies," pretended that they had been with the French power and heard all about it; so that they would tell you the very cunning of the thing, and its fashion, and when it was to be.

While rumour was thus exercising her hundred tongues, and, as usual, lying with them all, the warning-gun was fired from the castle of Guisnes, giving notice that the King of England was ready to set out, and all hurried to place themselves in order. In a few minutes the distant roar of another large piece of artillery was heard from Ardres, answering the first; and for the five minutes before the procession was formed, like the five minutes of tuning before a concert, all was noise, clamour, and confusion. The sounding of the trumpets to horse, the shouts of the various leaders, the loud cries of the marshals and heralds, and the roaring of the artillery from the castle, as the king put his foot in the stirrup, all combined to make one general outcry, rarely equalled.

Gradually the tumult subsided; gradually also the confused assemblage assumed a regular form. Flags, and pennons, and banderols, embroidered banners and scutcheons, silver pillars, and crosses, and crooks, ranged themselves in long line, and the bright procession, an interminable stream of living gold, began to wind across the plain. First came about five hundred of the gayest and wealthiest gentlemen of England, below the rank of baron; squires, knights, and bannerets, rivalling each other in the richness of their apparel and the beauty of their horses; while the pennons of the knights fluttered above their heads, marking the place of the English chivalry. Next appeared the proud barons of the realm, each with his banner borne before him, and followed by a custrel with the shield of his arms. To these again succeeded the bishops, not in the simple robes of the Protestant clergy, but in the more gorgeous habits of the church of Rome; while close upon their steps rode the higher nobility, surrounding the immediate person of the king, and offering the most splendid mass of gold and jewels that the summer sun ever shone upon.

Slowly the procession moved forward, to allow the line of those on foot to keep an equal pace. Nor did this band offer a less gay and pleasing sight than the cavalcade; for here might be seen the athletic forms of the sturdy English yeomanry, clothed in the various splendid liveries of their several lords, with the family cognizance embroidered on the bosom or the arm, and the banners and banderols of their particular houses carried in the front of each company. Here also was to be seen the picked guard of the King of England, magnificently dressed for the occasion, with the royal banner carried in their centre by the deputy standard-hearer, and the banner of their company by their own ancient. In the rear of all, marshalled by officers appointed for the purpose, came the band of those whose rank did not entitle them to take place in the cavalcade, but who had sufficient interest at court to be admitted to the meeting. Though of an inferior class, this company was not the least splendid in the field; for here were all the wealthy tradesmen of the court, habited in many a rich garment, furnished by the extravagance of those that rode before; and many a gold chain hung round their necks, that not long ago had lain in the purse of some prodigal customer.

Thus marched on the procession at a walking pace, with steeds neighing, with trumpets sounding, banners and plumes fluttering in the wind, and gold and jewels sparkling in the sunshine; while loud acclaim, and the waving of hats, and hands, and handkerchiefs, from those that stayed behind, ushered it forth from the plain of Guisnes.

They had ridden on some way, when a horseman spurred up to the spot where the king rode, and doffing his high plumed hat, bent to his saddle-bow, saying, "My king and my sovereign, I have just been with the French party, and I hold myself bound, as your liege, to inform you that they are at least twice as numerous as we are. Your grace will act as in your wisdom you judge fit; but as a faithful and loving subject I could not let such knowledge sleep in my bosom."

An instant halt took place through the whole cavalcade, and the king for a moment consulted with Wolsey, who rode on his left hand; but Lord Shrewsbury, the lord steward, interposed, assuring the king that he had been amongst the French nobles the night before, and that amongst them the same reports prevailed concerning the English. "Therefore, sir," continued he, "if I were worthy to advise, your grace would march forward without hesitation; for sure I am that the French mean no treachery."

"We shall follow your advice, lord steward," replied the king; "let us march on."

"On before! On before!" cried the heralds at the word. The trumpets again sounded, and the procession, moving forward, very soon reached the brow of the hill that looks into the vale of Andern. A gentle slope, of not more than three hundred yards, led from the highest part of each of the opposite hills into the centre of the valley, in the midst of which was pitched the most magnificent tent that ever a luxurious imagination devised. The canopy, the walls, the hangings, were all of cloth of gold; the posts, the cones, the cords, the tassels, the furniture, were all of the same rare metal. Wherever the eye turned, nothing but that shining ore met its view, so that it required no very brilliant fancy to name it at once, the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

On reaching the verge of the descent, the cavalcade spread out, lining the side of the hill for some way down, and facing the line of the valley. Each cavalier placed himself unhesitatingly in the spot assigned him by the officers at arms, while the body of foot was drawn up in array to the left by the captains of the king's guard, so that not the least confusion or tumult took place; and the whole multitude, in perfect order, presented a long and glittering front to the opposite hill, before any of the French party appeared, except a few straggling horsemen sent to keep the ground.

As soon as the whole line was formed, and when, by the approaching sound of the French trumpets, it was ascertained that the Court of France was not far distant, Henry himself drew out from the ranks, ready to descend to the meeting; and never did a more splendid or more princely monarch present himself before so noble a host. Tall, stately, athletic, with a countenance full of imperial dignity, and mounted on a horse that seemed proudly conscious of the royalty of its rider, Henry rode forward to a small hillock, about twenty yards in advance of his subjects; and halting upon the very edge of the hill, with his attendants grouped behind him, and a clear background of sunny light throwing nil figure out from all the other objects, he offered a subject on which Wouvermans might well have exercised his pencil. Over his wide chest and shoulders he wore a loose vest of cloth of silver, damasked and ribbed with gold. This was plaited, and bound tightly towards the waist, while it was held down from the neck by the golden collars of many a princely order, and the broad baldrick studded with jewels, to which was suspended his sword. His jewelled hat was also of the same cloth; and in the only representation of this famous meeting that I have met with, which can be relied upon, having been executed at the time, he appears with a vast plume of feathers, rising from the left side of his hat, and falling over to his saddle behind. Nor was the horse less splendidly attired than the rider. Its housings, its trappers, its headstall, and its reins, were all curiously wrought and embossed with bullion, while a thousand fanciful ornaments of gold filigree-work hung about it in every direction.

Behind the king appeared Sir Henry Guilford, master of the horse, leading a spare charger for the monarch; not indeed with any likelihood of the king's using it, but more as a piece of state ornament than anything else, in the same manner as the sword of state was borne by the Marquis of Dorset. A little behind appeared nine youths of noble family, as the king's henchmen, mounted on beautiful horses trapped with golden scales, and sprinkled throughout their housings with loose bunches of spangles, which, twinkling in the sunshine, gave an inconceivable lightness and brilliancy to their whole appearance.

Shortly after this glittering group had taken its station in front of the English line, the first parties of the French nobility began to appear on the opposite hill, and spreading out upon its side, offered a corresponding mass of splendour to that formed by the array of England. Very soon the whole of Francis's court had deployed; and after a pause of a few minutes, during which the two hosts seemed to consider each other with no small admiration, and in profound silence, the trumpets from the French side sounded, and the constable Duke of Bourbon, bearing a naked sword upright, began to descend the hill. Immediately behind him followed the French monarch superbly arrayed, and mounted on a magnificent Barbary horse, covered from head to foot with gold. Instantly on beholding this, the English trumpets replied, and the Marquis of Dorset, unsheathing the sword of state, moved slowly forward before the king. Henry, having the lord cardinal on his left, and followed by his immediate suite, now descended the hill, and arrived in the valley exactly at the same moment as Francis. The two sword-bearers who preceded them fell back each to the right of his own sovereign; and the monarchs, spurring forward their highly-managed horses, met in the midst and embraced each other on horseback. Difficult and strange as such a manœuvre may seem, it was performed with ease and grace, both the kings being counted amongst the most skilful horsemen in Europe; and in truth, as the old historian expresses it, it must have been a marvellous sweet and goodly sight to see those two princes, in the flower of their age, in the height of their strength, and in the dignity of their manly beauty, commanding two great nations, that had been so long rivals and enemies, instead of leading hostile armies to desolate and destroy, meet in that peaceful valley, and embrace like brothers in the sight of the choice nobility of either land.

Two grooms and two pages, who had followed on foot, now ran to hold the stirrup and the rein, each of his own monarch; and springing to the ground, the kings embraced again; after which, clasped arm in arm, they passed the barrier, and entered the golden tent, wherein two thrones were raised beneath one canopy.

"Henry of England, my dear brother," said the King of France, as soon as they were seated, "thus far have I travelled to see you and do you pleasure; willing to hold you to my heart with brotherly love, and to show you that I am your friend: and surely I believe that you esteem me as I am. The realms that I command, and the powers that I possess, are not small; but if they may ever be of aid to my brother, of England, I shall esteem them greater than before."

"The greatness of your realms, sir, and the extent of your power," replied Henry, "weigh as nothing in my eyes, compared with your high and princely qualities; and it is to interchange regard with you, and renew in person our promises of love, that I have here passed the seas and come to the very verge of my dominions."

With such greetings commenced the interview of the two kings, who soon called to them the cardinal, and seating him beside them, with much honour, they commanded him to read the articles which he had drawn up for the arrangement and ordering of their future interviews. Wolsey complied; and all that he proposed seemed well to please both the monarchs, till he proceeded to stipulate, that when the King of England should go over to the town of Ardres, to revel with the queen and ladies of France, the King of France should at the same time repair to the town of Guisnes, there to be entertained by the Queen of England. At this Francis mused: "Nay, nay, my good lord cardinal," said he, "faith, I fear not to trust myself with my brother of England at his good castle of Guisnes, without holding him as a hostage in my court for my safe return; and, marry, I am sure he would put equal confidence in me, though I stayed not in his city till he was on his journey back."

"This clause is not inserted, most noble sovereign," replied Wolsey, "from any doubt or suspicion that one gracious king has of the other; for surely all trust and amicable confidence exist between ye: but it is for the satisfaction of the minds of your liege subjects, who, not understanding the true nature of princely friendship, might be filled with black apprehensions, were they to see their monarch confide himself, without warrant of safety, in the power of another nation."

"Well, well, my good lord," replied Francis, "let it be; time will show us." And from that moment he seemed to pay little attention to all the precautionary measures by which the cautious Wolsey proposed to secure the future meetings of the two kings from the least danger to either party. The generous mind of the French monarch revolted at the suspicious policy of the cardinal; and agreeing to anything that the other thought proper, he mentally revolved his own plans for shaming the English monarch and his minister out of their cold and injurious doubts.

The arrangement of these articles was the only displeasing circumstance that cast a shadow upon the meeting: all the rest passed in gaiety and joy. A sumptuous banquet was soon placed before them, and various of the nobles of England and France were called to mingle in the royal conversation while the monarchs were at table.

In the meanwhile the two courts and their retainers remained arranged on the opposing sides of the hill; the Englishmen, with their characteristic rigidity, standing each man in his place as immoveable as a statue, while the livelier Frenchmen, impatient of doing nothing, soon quitted their ranks, and, falling into broken masses, amused themselves as best they might; many of them crossing the valley, and with national facility beginning to make acquaintance with their new allies, nothing repulsed by the blunt reception they met with. Not that the English were inhospitable; for having, as usual, taken good care that no provision should be wanting against the calls of hunger or thirst, they communicated willingly to their neighbours of the comforts they had brought with them, sending over many a flagon of wine and hypocras, much to the consolation of the French, who had taken no such wise precautions against the two great internal enemies.

In about an hour, the hangings of the tent were drawn back, and the two kings re-appeared; ready to separate for the day. The grooms led up the horses; and Francis and Henry, embracing with many professions of amity, mounted and turned their steps each to his several dwelling.

The English procession marched back in the same order as it came, and arrived without interruption at the green plain of Guisnes, where Henry, ordering the band of footmen to halt, rode along before them, making them a gay and familiar speech, and bidding them be merry if they loved their king. Shouts and acclamations answered the monarch's speech, and the nobles, joining in his intent, showered their largesse upon their retainers as they followed along the line. The last band that Henry came to was that of the privileged tradesmen of the court, most of whom he recognised, possessing, in a high degree, that truly royal quality of never forgetting any one he had once known. To each he had some frank, bluff sentence to address; while they, with heads uncapped and bending low, enjoyed with proud hearts the honour of being spoken to by the king, and thought how they could tell it to all their neighbours and gossips when they got to England. As he rode on, Henry perceived in the second rank a face that he remembered, which, being attached to a very pliable neck, kept bending down with manifold reverences, not unlike the nodding of a mandarin cast in china-ware.

"Ha! my good clothier, Jekin Groby!" cried the king; "come forth, man! What! come forth, I say!"

Jekin Groby rushed forward from behind, knocking on one side the royal honey merchant, and fairly throwing down the household fishmonger who stood before him; then, casting himself on his knees by the side of the king's horse, he clasped the palms of his hands together, and turned up his eyes piteously to the monarch's countenance, exclaiming, "Justice! justice! your grace's worship, if your royal stomach be full of justice, as folks say, give me justice."

"Justice!" cried Henry, laughing at the sad and deplorable face poor Jekin thought necessary to assume for the purpose of moving his compassion. "Justice on whom, man--ha? Faith, if any man have done thee wrong, he shall repent it, as I am a king; though, good Jekin, I sent for thee a month ago to furnish cloth for all the household, and thou wert not to be found."

"Lord 'a mercy!" cried Jekin, "and I've missed the job! but it ought all to be put in the bill. Pray, your grace's worship, put it in the bill against that vile Sir Payan Wileton, who kidnapped me on your own royal highway, robbed me of my bagfull of angels, and sent me to sea, where I was so sick, your grace; you can't think how sick! And then they beat me with ropes' ends, and made me go up aloft, and damned me for a land-lubber, and a great deal more: all on account of that Sir Payan Wileton!"

"Ha!" cried the king; "Sir Payan Wileton again! I had forgot him. However, good Jekin, I cannot hear you now; come to my chamber to-morrow before I rise--ha, man! then I will hear and do you justice, if it be on the highest man in the land. There is my signet: the page will let you in. At six o'clock, man, fail not!"

"I told you so!" cried Jekin, starting upon his feet, and looking round him with delight as the king rode away; "I told you he would make that black thief give me back my angels. I knew his noble heart; Lord 'a mercy! 'tis a gracious prince, surely."