"When, princess, may I see you and where?"
"Wait for the message that John Heywood will bring you to-day,"
whispered Elizabeth, as she sprang forward and again drew near the
queen.
"John Heywood, again!" muttered the earl. "The confidant of both,
and so my hangman, if he wishes to be!"
CHAPTER XIII.
"LE ROI S'ENNUIT."
King Henry was alone in his study. He had spent a few hours in
writing on a devout and edifying book, which he was preparing for
his subjects, and which, in virtue of his dignity as supreme lord of
the Church, he designed to commend to their reading instead of the
Bible.
He now laid down his pen, and, with infinite complacency, looked
over the written sheets, which were to be to his people a new proof
of his paternal love and care, and so convince them that Henry the
Eighth was not only the noblest and most virtuous of kings, but also
the wisest.
But this reflection failed to make the king more cheerful to-day;
perhaps because he had already indulged in it too frequently. To be
alone, annoyed and disturbed him--there were in his breast so many
secret and hidden voices, whose whispers he dreaded, and which,
therefore, he sought to drown--there were so many recollections of
blood, which ever and again rose before him, however often he tried
to wash them out in fresh blood, and which the king was afraid of,
though he assumed the appearance of never repenting, never feeling
disquietude.
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