Lady Clarence. There was no proof against him. Alice. Nay, Madam, did not Gardiner intercept A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote To that dead traitor, Wyatt, with full proof O Courtenay's treason? What became of that?

Lady Clarence. Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him,

Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. But shall I take some message from your Grace? Mary. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave. Feria. Then I may say your Grace will see your sis

ter?

He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice,

And died in Padua.

Mary.

I sicken of his readiness. Lady Clarence.

Have him away;

My Lord Count,

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.

Feria (kneels and kisses her hand). I wish her Highness better. (Aside.) How her hand burns! [Exeunt.

Happier he than I. Lady Magdalen. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you

That I might dare to tell her that the Count-
Mary. I will see no man hence for evermore,

Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.

Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.

Arrange my dress-the gorgeous Indian shawl
That Philip brought me in our happy days!—
That covers all. So-am I somewhat queenlike,
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?

Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.

Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die Before I read it. Let me see him at once.

Enter COUNT DE FERIA (kneels).

ANTS.

Elizabeth. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account;

Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it

Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again.
Steward. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Mad-

My King's congratulations; it was hoped
Your Highness was once more in happy state
To give him an heir male.
Mary.
Sir, you said more;
You said he would come quickly. I had horses
On all the road from Dover, day and night;
On all the road from Harwich, night and day:
But the child came not, and the husband came not;
And yet he will come quickly. Thou hast learnt
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need
For Philip so to shame himself again.
Return,

And tell him that I know he comes no more.
Tell him at last I know his love is dead,
And that I am in state to bring forth dead-
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth,
And not to me!

Wherefore pause you-what? Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not him:

Your royal sister cannot last; your hand
Will be much coveted! What a delicate one!
Our Spanish ladies have none such-and there,
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold-
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn-
That hovers round your shoulder-
Elizabeth.

Troth, some have said so.
Feria.

Is it so fine?

-would be deemed a miracle. Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard,

There must be ladies many with hair like mine. Feria. Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair, But none like yours.

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it. Feria. But as to Philip and your Grace, consider, If such a one as you should match with Spain, What hinders but that Spain and England join'd Should make the mightiest empire earth has known. Spain would be England on her seas, and England Mistress of the Indies.

Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old. Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it; He is my good friend, and I would keep him so; But he would have me Catholic of Rome, And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till now My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages, Make me full fain to live and die a maid. But I am much beholden to your King. Have you aught else to tell me?

Feria. Nothing, Madam, Save that methought I gather'd from the Queen That she would see your Grace before she-died. Elizabeth. God's death! and wherefore spake you not before?

We dally with our lazy moments here,

And hers are number'd. Horses there, without!
I am much beholden to the King, your master.
Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there!

[Exit ELIZABETII, etc. Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt! Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip, Then I and he will snaffle your "God's death," And break your paces in, and make you tame; God's death, forsooth-you do not know King Philip. [Exit.

Third. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according to his promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.

SCENE V.-LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

A gallery on one side, The moonlight streaming through a range of windows on the wall opposite. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN pacing the gallery. A writing-table in front. QUEEN comes to the table and writes, and goes again, pacing the gallery.

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? Read.

Alice. "I am dying, Philip; come to me." Lady Magdalen, There-up and down, poor lady, up and down.

Alice. And how her shadow crosses one by one The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again. [QUEEN sits and writes, and goes again. Lady Clarence. What hath she written now? Alice. Nothing; but "come, come, come," and all

awry,

And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

[QUEEN returns.

Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, And all in vain. [Sitting down. Calais gone-Guisnes gone, too-and Philip gone. Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the

wars;

I cannot doubt but that he comes again;
And he is with you in a measure still.

I never look'd upon so fair a likeness
As your great King in armor there, his hand

A Third Voice. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping, after all she has done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them.

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach. You had best go home. What are you?

Mary.

[Pointing to the portrait of PHILIP on the wall.
Doth he not look noble?

I had heard of him in battle over seas,
And I would have my warrior all in arms.
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted
Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment,
Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles,
As if he loved me yet!

Lady Clarence.

And so he does.

Mary. He never loved me-nay, he could not love

me.

It was his father's policy against France.

I am eleven years older than he,
Poor boy.

[Weeps.

Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven; [Aside. Poor enough in God's grace!

That I must rest-I shall rest by-and-by.
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs;
And maims himself against the bars, say "Rest:"
Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest-
Dead or alive, you cannot make him happy.

Mary.

This Philip shall not

Stare in upon me in my haggardness;
Old, miserable, diseased,
Incapable of children. Come thou down.

[Cuts out the picture and throws it down,

May make your Grace forget yourself a little.
There runs a shallow brook across our field
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five,
And doth so bound and babble all the way
As if itself were happy. It was May-time,
And I was walking with the man I loved.
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.
And both were silent, letting the wild brook
Speak for us-till he stoop'd and gather'd one
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it,
And put it in my boson, and all at once
I felt his arms about me, and his lips-

Sit

Mary. O God! I have been too slack, too slack;
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards-
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt
The heretic priest, workmen, and women and chil-
dren.

Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath-
We have so play'd the coward; but, by God's grace,
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up
The Holy Office here-garner the wheat,
And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!
Burn!-

Fie, what a savor! Tell the cooks to close
The doors of all the offices below.
Latimer!

Sir, we are private with our women here-
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow-
Thou light a torch that never will
go out!
'Tis out-mine flames. Women, the Holy Father
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole-
Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it,
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman,
I have no power. Ah, weak and meek old man,
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the sight
Of thine own sectaries-No, no. No pardon!-
Why, that was false: there is the right hand still
Beckons me hence.

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason,
Remember that! "Twas I and Bonner did it,

Alice. Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; We can replace it.

Mary. All is well then; restI will to rest; he said I must have rest.

No,

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours

No one in waiting? Still,

As if the chamberlain were Death himself!
The room she sleeps in-is not this the way?
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?
Cecil....God guide me lest I lose the way.

[Exit ELIZABETIL Cecil. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones, At last a harbor opens; but therein

Sunk rocks-they need fine steering-much it is
To be nor mad, nor bigot-have a mind-

Not let priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,
Miscolor things about her-sudden touches
For him, or him-sunk rocks; no passionate faith-
But if let be-balance and compromise;
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her-a Tudor
School'd by the shadow of death—a Boleyn, too,
Glancing across the Tudor-not so well.

Enter ALICE.

How is the good Queen now?
Alice.
Away from Philip.
Back in her childhood-prattling to her mother
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles,
And childlike-jealous of him again—and once
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book
Against that godless German. Ah, those days
Were happy. It was never merry world