hundred ladies, perhaps not less fair than Anne, at least of a beauty
more commanding the common homage, but these he had only to smile on
with ease to win. No awful danger, no inexpiable guilt, attended
those vulgar frailties, and therefore they ceased to tempt. But here
the virgin guest, the daughter of his mightiest subject, the beloved
treasure of the man whose hand had built a throne, whose word had
dispersed an army--here, the more the reason warned, the conscience
started, the more the hell-born passion was aroused.

Like men of his peculiar constitution, Edward was wholly incapable of
pure and steady love. His affection for his queen the most resembled
that diviner affection; but when analyzed, it was composed of feelings
widely distinct. From a sudden passion, not otherwise to be
gratified, he had made the rashest sacrifices for an unequal marriage.
His vanity, and something of original magnanimity, despite his vices,
urged him to protect what he himself had raised,--to secure the honour
of the subject who was honoured by the king. In common with most rude
and powerful natures, he was strongly alive to the affections of a
father, and the faces of his children helped to maintain the influence
of the mother. But in all this, we need scarcely say that that true
love, which is at once a passion and a devotion, existed not. Love
with him cared not for the person loved, but solely for its own
gratification; it was desire for possession,--nothing more. But that
desire was the will of a king who never knew fear or scruple; and,
pampered by eternal indulgence, it was to the feeble lusts of common
men what the storm is to the west wind. Yet still, as in the solitude
of night he paced his chamber, the shadow of the great crime advancing
upon his soul appalled even that dauntless conscience. He gasped for
breath; his cheeks flushed crimson, and the next moment grew deadly
pale. He heard the loud beating of his heart. He stopped still. He