eath, one of the king's cavaliers
appeared on the threshold of the royal chamber and advanced toward the
king.

He was a young man of noble and imposing appearance, whose lofty bearing
contrasted strangely with the humble and submissive attitude of the
rest of the courtiers. His tall, slim form was clad in a coat of mail
glittering with gold; over his shoulders hung a velvet mantle decorated
with a princely crown; and his head, covered with dark ringlets, was
adorned with a cap embroidered with gold, from which a long white
ostrich-feather drooped to his shoulder. His oval face presented
the full type of aristocratic beauty; his cheeks were of a clear,
transparent paleness; about his slightly pouting mouth played a smile,
half contemptuous and half languid; the high, arched brow and delicately
chiselled aquiline nose gave to his face an expression at once bold and
thoughtful. The eyes alone were not in harmony with his face; they were
neither languid like the mouth, nor pensive like the brow. All the
fire and all the bold and wanton passion of youth shot from those dark,
flashing eyes. When he looked down, he might have been taken for a
completely worn-out, misanthropic aristocrat; but when he raised those
ever-flashing and sparkling eyes, then was seen the young man full
of dashing courage and ambitious desires, of passionate warmth and
measureless pride.

He approached the king, as already stated, and as he bent his knee
before him, he said in a full, pleasant voice:

"Mercy, sire, mercy!"

The king stepped back in astonishment, and turned upon the bold speaker
a look almost of amazement.

"Thomas Seymour!" said he. "Thomas, you have returned, then, and your
first act is again an indiscretion and a piece of foolhardy rashness?"

The young man smiled. "I have returned," said he, "that is to say, I
have had a sea-fight with the Scots and taken from them four men-of-war.
With these I hastened hither to present them to you, my king and lord,
as a wedding-gift, and just as I entered the anteroom I heard your voice
pronouncing a sentence of death. Was it not natural, then, that I, who
bring you tidings of a victory, should have the heart to utter a
prayer for mercy, for which, as it seems, none of these noble and proud
cavaliers could summon up courage?"

"Ah!" said the king, evidently relieved and fetching a deep breath,
"then you knew not at all for whom and for what you were imploring
pardon?"

"Yet!" said the