me, beloved; tell me all, all."

Emulating his calmness, remembering even at that moment her promise not
to unman him in the moment of trial by vain repinings, Agnes complied
with his request. Her tale was frequently interrupted by those terrible
sobs, which seemed to threaten annihilation; but Nigel could gather from
it so much of tenderness and care on the part of the princess, that the
deepest gratitude filled his heart, and spoke in his impassioned words.

"Tell her, oh, tell her, if the prayers of the dying can in aught avail
her, the blessedness of heaven shall be hers even upon earth!" he
exclaimed, gazing up in the earl's face with eyes that spoke his soul.
"Oh, I knew her not, when in former years I did but return her kindness
with silence and reserve; I saw in her little more than the daughter of
Edward. Tell her, on my knees I beseech her pardon for that wrong; in my
last prayers I shall breathe her name."

"And wherefore didst thou go with her?" he continued, on Agnes narrating
the scene between the princess and the king. "Alas! my gentle one, hadst
thou not endured enough, that thou wouldst harrow up thy soul by hearing
the confirmation of my doom from the tyrant's own ruthless lips--didst
dream of pardon? dearest, no, thou couldst not."

"Nigel, Nigel, I did, even at that moment, though they told me thou wert
condemned, that nothing could save thee; though the princess besought me
almost on her knees to spare myself this useless trial, I would not
listen to her. I would not believe that all was hopeless; I dreamed
still, still of pardon, that Edward would listen to his noble child,
would forgive, and I thought, even if she failed, I would so plead he
must have mercy, he would listen to me and grant my prayer. I did dream
of pardon, but it was vain, vain! Nigel, Nigel, why did my voice fail,
my eye grow dim? I might have won thy pardon yet."

"Beloved, thou couldst not," he answered, mournfully. "Mine own sweet
Agnes, take comfort, 'tis but a brief farewell; we shall meet where war
and blood and death can never enter more."

"I know it, Oh, I know it," she sobbed; "but to part thus, to lose thee,
and by such a death, oh, it is horrible, most horrible!"

"Nay, look not on it thus, beloved; there is no shame even in this
death, if there be no shame in him who dies."

"Shame!" she repeated; "couldst think I could couple aught of shame with
thee, my own? even this dark fate is noble when borne by such as