“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 thee.”

Nigel held her closer to his heart, and for his sole answer pressed a quivering kiss upon her cheek.  Gloucester, who had been in earnest commune with the sentinel without the door, now returned, and informed him that the soldier, who was well known to him and who much disliked his present watch, had willingly consented that the page (whom Gloucester had represented as a former attendant of Sir Nigel’s, though now transferred to his service) should remain with his former master, on condition that the earl would come for him before the priests and others who were to attend him to the scaffold entered the dungeon, as this departure from the regular prison discipline, shown as it was to one against whom the king was unusually irritated, might cost him his head.  Gloucester had promised faithfully, and he offered them the melancholy option of parting now, or a few sad hours hence.

“Let me, do let me stay; Nigel, my husband, send me not from thee now!” exclaimed Agnes, sinking at his feet and clasping his knees.  “I will not weep, nor moan, nor in aught afflict thee.  Nigel, dearest Nigel, I will not leave thee now.”