spoken make you guilty of high treason?"

"I know it, sire."

"And you know what punishment awaits traitors?"

"Death, I know it."

"Death by fire!" said the king with perfect calmness and composure.
A hollow murmur ran through the assembly. Only one voice dared give
utterance to the word mercy.

It was Catharine, the king's consort, who spoke this one word. She
stepped forward, and was about to rush to the king and once more
implore his mercy and pity. But she felt herself gently held back.
Archbishop Cranmer stood near her, regarding her with a serious and
beseeching look.

"Compose yourself, compose yourself," murmured he. "You cannot save
her; she is lost. Think of yourself, and of the pure and holy
religion whose protectress you are. Preserve yourself for your
Church and your companions in the faith!"

"And must she die?" asked Catharine, whose eyes filled with tears as
she looked toward the poor young child, who was confronting the king
with such a beautiful and innocent smile.

"Perhaps we may still save her, but this is not the moment for it.
Any opposition now would only irritate the king the more, and he
might cause the girl to be instantly thrown into the flames of the