their god and lord; different from these pitiful, good-for-nothing
mortals, who call themselves my people, and who allow me to yoke them
up, because they are like the ox, which is obedient and serviceable,
only because he is so stupid as not to know his own might and strength.
Ah, believe me, Kate, I would be a milder and more merciful king, if the
people were not such an utterly stupid and contemptible thing; a dog,
which is so much the more submissive and gentle the more you maltreat
him. You, Kate, you are different, and I am glad of it. You know, I have
forever banished Elizabeth from my court and from my heart, and still
you intercede for her. That is noble of you, and I love you for it, and
grant you your request. And that you may see how I love and trust you,
I will now reveal to you a secret: I have long since wished to have
Elizabeth with me, but I was ashamed, even to myself, of this weakness.
I have long yearned once again to look into my daughter's large deep
eyes, to be a kind and tender father to her, and make some amends to her
for the wrong I perhaps may have done to her mother. For sometimes, in
sleepless nights, Anne's beautiful face comes up before me and gazes at
me with mournful, mild look, and my whole heart shudders before it.
But I could not confess this to anybody, for then they might say that I
repented what I had done. A king must be infallible, like God himself,
and never, through regret or desire to compensate, confess that he is a
weak, erring mortal, like others. You see why I repressed my longing and
parental tenderness, which was suspected by no one, and appeared to be
a heartless father, because nobody would help me and make it easy for
me to be a tender father. Ah, these courtiers! They are so stupid, that
they can understand only just what is echoed in our words; but what
our heart says, and longs for, of that they know nothing. But you know,
Kate; you are an acute woman, and a high-minded one besides. Come, Kate,
a thankful father gives you this kiss, and this, ay, this, your husband
gives you, my beautiful, charming queen."

CHAPTER VII. HENRY THE EIGHTH AND HIS WIVES.

The calm of night had now succeeded to the tempest of the day, and after
so much bustle, festivity, and rejoicing, deep quiet now reigned in the
palace of Whitehall, and throughout London. The happy subjects of King
Henry might, without danger, remain for a few hours at least in their
houses, and behind close