Page:Two Scenes in the Life of Anne Boleyn.pdf/7

"I have paid dearly, Percy," muttered she, "for the vanity that broke faith with love." Never till in that moment of its utter want, had Anna Boleyn felt the full value of affection. Her fancy conjured up a happy home, where she was cherished—far from the world—but with the dearer world of love within her and around her. She started from her dream, to know that she was a prisoner,—tried, condemned,—on whom even now rested the shadow of the scaffold. "It is not possible," exclaimed she, starting from her seat, and wringing her hands in a paroxysm of anguish; "he is fierce—he is cruel—but he cannot see that head go down in blood to the dust, which has so often lain upon his own heart! He used to twist my long fair hair round his fingers, and call it beautiful:—he cannot let the coarse hands of the executioner sever the locks that have so often mingled with his own! I bound one round the letter which I sent him this morning." Again she sank into silence—but, this time, her musing took a sadder tone. "I am innocent to him," murmured she, "but not so, my God, before thee. Untrue to Percy—false to my royal mistress—how does the sad patience of Katharine of Arragon upbraid me now! Vain, frivolous—I have lived for the pomps and pleasures of this world—and I have now my bitter requital." The evening passed on; but every moment added to the restlessness of the unfortunate captive. Hope deferred is sickness to the heart—and she was now suffering that sickness, at its worst. She had, that day, written to Henry that touching letter which history has preserved, and every moment she expected an answer. The suspense was dreadful. The least noise sent the colour to her temples, which then receding, left her pale as death. At last the governor of the Tower came, as he did every evening; and the sight of a human face, the sound