And yet, through all this, Arthur fancied there was an even
unusual degree of sympathy and kindliness in the tone and look with
which she addressed him individually; but he felt intuitively it
was sympathy with sorrow, not with joy. He was convinced that his
unexpected presence had startled and almost grieved her; and why
should this be, if she had still the hope with which she had so
infused his spirit, when they had parted. His heart, so full of
elasticity a few hours previous, sunk chilled and pained within him,
and it was with an effort impossible to have been denied, had it not
been for the Queen's _unspoken_ but real sympathy; he roused himself
sufficiently to execute his mission.
But Isabella was too much the true and feeling woman, to permit the
day to close without the private interview she saw Stanley needed;
reality, sad as it was, she felt would be better than harrowing
suspense; and, in a few kindly words, the tale was told.
"I should have known it!" he exclaimed, when the first shock of bitter
disappointment permitted words. "My own true, precious Marie! How
dared I dream that for me thou wouldst sacrifice thy faith; all, all
else--joy, hope, strength; aye, life itself--but not thy God! Oh,
Madam," he continued, turning passionately to the Queen, "thou hast
not condemned her to misery for this! Thou hast not revoked thy former
heavenly mercy, and delivered her over to the stern fathers of our
holy church? No, no! Isabella could not have done this!"
"Nor have we," replied the Queen, so mildly that Arthur flung himself at
her feet, conjuring her to pardon his disrespectful words.
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