[Footnote: Burnet's "History of the Reformation," vol.
i, p. 132.] Excuse me, my king, from sketching this scene of horror
still further! Horrified and trembling, I fled from that frightful
place, and returned to my room, shattered and sad at heart."
Catharine ceased, exhausted, and sank back into her seat.
A breathless stillness reigned around. All faces were pale and
colorless. Gardiner and Wriothesley stood with their eyes fixed,
gloomy and defiant, expecting that the king's wrath would crush and
destroy them.
But the king scarcely thought of them; he thought only of his fair
young queen, whose boldness inspired him with respect, and whose
innocence and purity filled him with a proud and blissful joy.
He was, therefore, very much inclined to forgive those who in
reality had committed no offence further than this, that they had
carried out a little too literally and strictly the orders of their
master.
A long pause had ensued--a pause full of expectation and anxiety for
all who were assembled in the hall. Only Catharine reclined calmly
in her chair, and with beaming eyes looked across to Thomas Seymour,
whose handsome countenance betrayed to her the gratification and
satisfaction which he felt at this clearing up of her mysterious
night-wandering.
At last the king arose, and, bowing low before his consort, said in
a loud, full-toned voice: "I have deeply and bitterly injured you,
my noble wife; and as I publicly accused you, I will also publicly
ask your forgiveness! You have a right to be angry with me; for it
behooved me, above all, to believe with unshaken firmness in the
truth and honor of my wife.
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