dy Jane herself, no longer ago than
yesterday, was made to give up a note from Anne Askew to the queen."

The king remained silent for a while, and gazed fixedly on the
ground. His three confidants observed him with breathless, trembling
expectation.

At length the king raised his head again, and turned his gaze, which
was now grave and steady, upon the lord chancellor. "My Lord Chancellor
Wriothesley," said he, "I empower you to conduct Anne Askew to the
torture-room, and try whether the torments which are prepared for the
body are perchance able to bring this erring soul to an acknowledgment
of her faults. My Lord Bishop Gardiner, I promise my word that I will
give attention to your accusation against the Archbishop of Canterbury,
and that, if it be well founded, he shall not escape punishment. My Lord
Douglas, I will give my people and all the world proof that I am
still God's righteous and avenging vice-gerent on earth, and that no
consideration can restrain my wrath, no after-thought stay my arm,
whenever it is ready to fall and smite the head of the guilty. And now,
my lords, let us declare this session at an end. Let us breathe a little
from these exertions, and seek some recreation for one brief hour.

"My Lords Gardiner and Wriothesley, you are now at liberty. You,
Douglas, will accompany me into the small reception-room. I want to see
bright and laughing faces around me. Call John Heywood, and if you meet
any ladies in the palace, of course I beg them to shed on us a little of
that sunshine which you say is peculiarly woman's."

He laughed, and, leaning on the earl's arm, left the cabinet.

Gardiner and Wriothesley stood there in silence, watching the king, who
slowly and heavily traversed the adjacent hall, and whose cheery and
laughing voice came ringing back to them.

"He is a weathercock, turning every moment from side to side," said
Gardiner, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

"He calls himself God's sword of vengeance, but he is nothing more than
a weak tool, which we bend and use at our will," muttered Wriothesley,
with a hoarse laugh. "Poor, pitiful fool, deeming himself so mighty
and sturdy; imagining himself a free king, ruling by his sovereign
will alone, and yet he is but our servant and drudge! Our great work is
approaching its end, and we shall one day triumph. Anne Askew's death is
the sign of a new covenant, which will deliver England and trample the
heretics like dust beneath