e which could be for him now only an isolated,
desolate, and gloomy one? For Geraldine was lost to him! He knew not her
fate; and no tidings of her had penetrated to him through the solitary
prison walls. Did the queen still live? Or had the king in his wrath
murdered her on that very night when Henry was carried to the Tower, and
his last look beheld his beloved lying at her husband's feet, swooning
and rigid.

What had become of the queen--of Henry Howard's beloved Geraldine? He
knew nothing of her. He had hoped in vain for some note, some message
from her; but he had not dared to ask any one as to her fate. Perhaps
the king desisted from punishing her likewise. Perhaps his murderous
inclination had been satisfied by putting Henry Howard to death; and
Catharine escaped the scaffold. It might, therefore, have been ruinous
to her, had he, the condemned, inquired after her. Or, if she had gone
before him, then he was certain of finding her again, and of being
united with her forevermore beyond the grave.

He believed in a hereafter, for he loved; and death did not affright
him, for after death came the reunion with her, with Geraldine, who
either was already waiting for him there above, or would soon follow
him.

Life had nothing more to offer him. Death united him to his beloved. He
hailed death as his friend and savior, as the priest who was to unite
him to his Geraldine. He heard the great Tower clock of the prison which
with threatening stroke made known the hour; and each passing hour he
hailed with a joyous throb of the heart. The evening came and deep night
descended upon him--the last night that was allotted to him-the last
night that separated him from his Geraldine.

The turnkey opened the door to bring the earl a light, and to ask
whether he had any orders to give. Heretofore it had been the king's
special command not to allow him a light in his cell; and he had spent
these six long evenings and nights of his imprisonment in darkness. But
to-day they were willing to give him a light; to-day they were willing
to allow him everything that he might still desire. The life which he
must leave in a few hours was to be once more adorned for him with all
charms and enjoyments which he might ask for. Henry Howard had but to
wish, and the jailer was ready to furnish him everything.

But Henry Howard wished for nothing; he demanded nothing, save that they
would leave him alone-save that they would remove from his pr