and Wyat stepped from behind it. His first proceeding was to bar the door.
“What means this, Sir Thomas?” cried Anne in alarm. “How have you obtained admittance here?”
“Through the secret staircase,” replied Wyat, bending the knee before her.
“Rise, sir!” cried Anne, in great alarm. “Return, I beseech you, as you came. You have greatly endangered me by coming here. If you are seen to leave this chamber, it will be in vain to assert my innocence to Henry. Oh, Sir Thomas! you cannot love me, or you would not have done this.”
“Not love you, Anne!” he repeated bitterly; “not love you I Words cannot speak my devotion. I would lay down my head on the scaffold to prove it. But for my love for you, I would throw open that door, and walk forth so that all might see me—so that Henry might experience some part of the anguish I now feel.”
“But you will not do so, good Sir Thomas—dear Sir Thomas,” cried Anne Boleyn, in alarm.
“Have no fear,” rejoined Wyat, with some contempt; “I will sacrifice even vengeance to love.”
“Sir Thomas, I had tolerated this too long,” said Anne. “Begone—you terrify me.”
“It is my last interview with you, Anne,” said Wyat imploringly; “do not abridge it. Oh, bethink you of the happy hours we have passed together—of the vows we have interchanged—of the protestations you have listened to, and returned—ay, returned, Anne. Are all these forgotten?”
“Not forgotten, Sir Thomas,” replied Anne mournfully; “but they must not be recalled. I cannot listen to you longer. You must go. Heaven grant you may get hence in safety!”
“Anne,” replied Wyat in a sombre tone, “the thought of Henry’s happiness drives me mad. I feel that I am grown a traitor—that I could slay him.”
“Sir Thomas!” she exclaimed, in mingled fear and anger.
“I will not go,” he continued, flinging himself into a seat. “Let them put what construction they will upon my presence. I shall at least wring Henry’s heart. I shall see him suffer as I have suffered; and I shall be content.”
“This is not like you, Wyat,” cried Anne, in great alarm. “You were wont to be noble, generous, kind. You will not act thus disloyally?
“Who has acted disloyally, Anne?” cried Wyat, springing to his feet, and fixing his dark eyes, blazing with jealous fury, upon her—“you or I? Have you not sacrificed your old affections at the shrine of ambition? Are you not about to give yourself to one to whom—unless you are foresworn—you cannot give your heart? Better had you been the mistress of Allington Castle—better the wife of a humble knight like myself, than the queen of the ruthless Henry.”
“No more of this, Wyat,” said Anne.
“Better far you should perish by his tyranny for a supposed fault now than hereafter,” pursued Wyat fiercely. “Think not Henry will respect you more than her who had been eight-and-twenty years his wife. No; when he is tired of your charms—when some other dame, fair as yourself, shall enslave his fancy, he will cast you off, or, as your father truly intimated, will seek a readier means of ridding himself of you. Then you will think of the different fate that might have been yours if you had adhered to your early love.”
“Wyat! Wyat! I cannot bear this—in mercy spare me!” cried Anne.
“I am glad to see you weep,” said Wyat; “your tears make you look more like your former self.”
“Oh, Wyat, do not view my conduct too harshly!” she said. “Few of my sex would have acted other than I have done.”
“I do not think so,” replied Wyat sternly; “nor will I forego my vengeance. Anne, you shall die. You know Henry too well to doubt your fate if he finds me here.”
“You cannot mean this,” she rejoined, with difficulty repressing a scream; “but if I perish, you will perish with me.”
“I wish to do so,” he rejoined, with a bitter laugh.
“Wyat,” cried Anne, throwing herself on her knees before him, “by your former love for me, I implore you to spare me! Do not disgrace me thus.”
But Wyat continued inexorable.
“O God!” exclaimed Anne, wringing her hands in agony. A terrible silence ensued, during which Anne regarded Wyat, but she could discern no change in his countenance.
At this juncture the tapestry was again raised, and the Earl of Surrey issued from it.
“You here, my lord?” said Anne, rushing towards him.
“I am come to save you, madame,” said the earl. “I have been just liberated from arrest, and was about to implore your intercession with the king, when I learned he had been informed by one of his pages that a man was in your chamber. Luckily, he knows not who it is, and while he was summoning his attendants to accompany him, I hurried hither by the secret staircase. I have arrived in time. Fly—fly! Sir Thomas Wyat!”
But Wyat moved not.
At this moment footsteps were heard approaching the door—the handle was tried—and the stern voice of the king was heard commanding that it might be opened.
“Will you destroy me, Wyat?” cried Anne.
“You have destroyed yourself,” he rejoined.
“Why stay you here, Sir Thomas?” said Surrey, seizing his arm. “You may yet escape. By heaven! if you move not, I will stab you to the heart!”
“You would do me a favour, young man,” said Wyat coldly; “but I will go. I yield to love, and not to you, tyrant!” he added, shaking his hand at the door. “May the worst pangs of jealously rend your heart!” And he disappeared behind the arras.
“I hear voices,” cried Henry from without. “God’s death! madam, open the door—or I will burst it open!”
“Oh, heaven! what is to be done?” cried Anne Boleyn, in despair.
“Open the door, and leave all to me, madam,” said Surrey; “I will save you, though it cost me my life!”
Anne pressed his hand, with a look of ineffable gratitude, and Surrey concealed himself behind the arras.
The door was opened, and Henry rushed in, followed by Richmond, Norfolk, Suffolk, and a host of attendants.
“Ah! God’s death! where is the traitor?” roared the king, gazing round.
“Why is my privacy thus broken upon?” said Anne, assuming a look of indignation.
“Your privacy!” echoed Henry, in a tone of deep derision—“Your privacy! —ha!—ha! You bear yourself bravely, it must be confessed. My lords, you heard the voices as well as myself. Where is Sir Thomas Wyat?”
“He is not here,” replied Anne firmly.
“Aha! we shall see that, mistress,” rejoined Henry fiercely. “But if Sir Thomas Wyat is not here, who is? for I am well assured that some one is hidden in your chamber.”
“What if there be?” rejoined Anne coldly.
“Ah! by Saint Mary, you confess it!” cried the king. “Let the traitor come forth.”
“Your majesty shall not need to bid twice,” said Surrey, issuing from his concealment.
“The Earl of Surrey!” exclaimed Henry, in surprise. “How come you here, my lord? Methought you were under arrest at the guard-house.”
“He was set free by my orders,” said the Duke of Richmond.
“First of all I must entreat your majesty to turn your resentment against me,” said the earl. “I am solely to blame, and I would not have the Lady Anne suffer for my fault. I forced myself into her presence. She knew not of my coming.”
“And wherefore did you so, my lord?” demanded Henry sternly.
“Liberated from