Soon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feet resounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy’s room in the tones of a clanging knell.  There seemed to be a frightful rhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again the words:  “John will die, John will die,” though the full import of her act and its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate her consciousness.  She remembered the queen’s words, “You may soon seek another.”  Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that John would die for his treason.  The clanking words, “John will die, John will die,” bore upon the girl’s ears in ever increasing volume until the agony she suffered deadened her power to think.  She wandered aimlessly about the room, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank.  After a few minutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doing something to avert the consequences of her mad act.  She at first thought to tell the queen that the Information she had given concerning Mary Stuart’s presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lie seldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, she could see that a lie would surely fail.  She determined to beg the queen to spare John’s life.  She did not know exactly what she would do, but she hoped by the time she should reach the queen’s room to hit upon some plan that would save him.  When she knocked at Elizabeth’s door it was locked against her.  Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St. Loe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon.

Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the queen’s council.  She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely repulsed.  By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had returned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed her soul.  Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened suddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our utmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself to have them back.  If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her indulgence within one hour after sinning.  But suffering cannot atone for sin; it is only a part of it—­the result.

“Arise, Madge, and dress,” said Dorothy, gently.  “I have made a terrible mistake.  I have committed a frightful crime.  I have betrayed John to death.  Ah, help me, Madge, if you can.  Pray God to help me.  He will listen to you.  I fear to pray to Him.  He would turn my prayers to curses.  I am lost.”  She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge’s breast murmuring, “If I could but die.”

“All may turn out better than it now appears,” said Madge.  “Quiet yourself and let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your—­your act.”

“Nothing can be done, nothing,” wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed and began to dress.  “Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself.  Here are your garments and your gown.”