shot across my gloomy meditations as the sunset rays
threaded their way through the narrow window of the chamber that was my
cell. The thought of him stayed with me, amusing my idleness and
entertaining my fancy. I could imagine his wise, contented nod, far from
surprise as the poles are apart, full of self-approval as an egg of
meat. For his vision had been clear, in him faith had never wavered. Of
a truth, the prophecy which old Betty Nasroth spoke (foolishness though
it were) was, through Fortune's freak, two parts fulfilled. What
remained might rest unjustified to my great content; small comfort had I
won from so much as had come to pass. I had loved where the King loved,
and my youth, though it raised its head again, still reeled under the
blow; I knew what the King hid--aye, it might be more than one thing
that he hid; my knowledge landed me where I lay now, in close
confinement with a gaoler at my door. For my own choice, I would crave
the Vicar's pardon, would compound with destiny, and, taking the
proportion of fate's gifts already dealt to me in lieu of all, would go
in peace to humbler doings, beneath the dignity of dark prophecy, but
more fit to give a man quiet days and comfort in his life. Indeed, as my
lord Quinton had said long ago, there was strange wine in the King's
cup, and I had no desire to drink of it. Yet who would not have been
moved by the strange working of events which made the old woman's
prophecy seem the true reading of a future beyond guess or reasonable
forecast? I jeered and snarled at myself, at Betty, at her prophecy, at
the Vicar's credulity. But the notion would not be expelled; two parts
stood accomplished, but the third remained. "Glamis thou art, and
Cawdor, and shalt be what thou art promised!"--I forget how it runs on,
for it is long since I saw the play, though I make bold to think that it
is well enough written. Alas, no good came of listening to witches
there, if my memory holds the story of the piece rightly.

There is little profit, and less entertainment, in the record of my
angry desponding thoughts. Now I lay like a log, again I ranged the cell
as a beast his cage. I cared not a stiver for Buckingham's schemes, I
paid small heed to Nell's jealousy. It was nought to me who should be
the King's next favourite, and although I, with all other honest men,
hated a Popish King, the fear of him would not have kept me from my
sleep or from my supper. Who eats his dinner the less