eye fell on Henry Howard,
who, with his father, the Duke of Norfolk, and surrounded by a circle of
brilliant and noble lords, was standing not far from the royal throne.

The king felt a deadly stab in his breast, and his eyes darted lightning
over toward that group.

How proud and imposing the figure of the noble earl looked; how high
he overtopped all others; how noble and handsome his countenance; how
kingly was his bearing and whole appearance!

Henry must admit all this; and because he must do so, he hated him.

Nay! no mercy for Catharine! If what her accusers had told him were
true--if they could give him the proofs of the queen's guilt, then she
was doomed. And how could he doubt it? Had they not told him that in
the rosette, which the queen would give Earl Surrey, was contained a
love-letter from Catharine, which he would find? Had not Earl Surrey, in
a confidential hour, yesterday imparted this to his sister, the Duchess
of Richmond, when he wished to bribe her to be the messenger of love
between the queen and himself? Had she not accused the queen of having
meetings by night with the earl in the deserted tower?

Nay, no compassion for his fair queen, if Henry Howard was her lover.

He must again look over at his hated enemy. There he still stood by his
father, the Duke of Norfolk. How sprightly and gracefully the old duke
moved; how slim his form; and how lofty and imposing his bearing!
The king was younger than the duke; and yet he was fettered to his
truckle-chair; yet he sat on his throne like an immovable colossus,
while he moved freely and lightly, and obeyed his own will, not
necessity. Henry could have crushed him--this proud, arrogant earl, who
was a free man, whilst his king was nothing but a prisoner to his own
flesh, a slave of his unwieldy body.

"I will exterminate it--this proud, arrogant race of Howards!" muttered
the king, as he turned with a friendly smile to the Earl of Surrey.

"You have promised us some of your poems, cousin!" said he. "So let us
now enjoy them; for you see, indeed, how impatiently all the beautiful
women look on England's noblest and greatest poet, and how very angry
with me they would be if I still longer withhold this enjoyment from
them! Even my fair queen is full of longing after your songs, so rich
in fancy; for you well know, Howard, she loves poetry, and, above all
things, yours."

Catharine had scarcely heard what the king said. Her looks had
encountere