"this is not like your noble self. Have you endured so much to be
fainthearted when the end is near, and you are made a smooth and
polished instrument, welded in the fire, for the triumph of the
Church over her enemies?"

"Ah, Father!" said the Queen, "how should not my heart fail me when I
think of the many high spirits who have fallen for my sake? Ay, and
when I look out on yonder peaceful vales and happy homesteads, and
think of them ravaged by those furious Spaniards and Italians, whom
my brother of Anjou himself called very fiends!"

"Fiends are the tools of Divine wrath," returned Preaux. "Look at
the profaned sanctuaries and outraged convents on which these proud
English have waxen fat, and say whether a heavy retribution be not
due to them."

"Ah, father! I may be weak, but I never loved persecution. King
Francis and I were dragged to behold the executions at Amboise. That
was enough for us. His gentle spirit never recovered it, and I--I
see their contorted visages and forms still in my restless nights;
and if the Spanish dogs should deal with England as with Haarlem or
Antwerp, and all through me!--Oh! I should be happier dying within
these walls!"

"Nay, madam, as Queen you would have the reins in your own hand: you
could exercise what wholesome severity or well-tempered leniency you
chose," urged the almoner; "it were ill requiting the favour of the
saints who have opened this door to you at last to turn aside now in
terror at the phantasy that long weariness of spirit hath conjured up
before you."