Suddenly, however, the chamber was illumined, and he beheld Henry
and Anne Boleyn enter it, preceded by a band of attendants bearing
tapers. It needed not Wyat's jealousy-sharpened gaze to read, even at
that distance, the king's enamoured looks, or Anne Boleyn's responsive
glances. He saw that one of Henry's arms encircled her waist, while
the other caressed her yielding hand. They paused. Henry bent
forward, and Anne half averted her head, but not so much so as to
prevent the king from imprinting a long and fervid kiss upon her lips.
Terrible was its effect upon Wyat. An adder's bite would have been less
painful. His hands convulsively clutched together; his hair stood erect
upon his head; a shiver ran through his frame; and he tottered back
several paces. When he recovered, Henry had bidden good-night to the
object of his love, and, having nearly gained the door, turned and waved
a tender valediction to her. As soon as he was gone, Anne looked
round with a smile of ineffable pride and pleasure at her attendants, but
a cloud of curtains dropping over the window shrouded her from the
sight of her wretched lover.
In a state of agitation wholly indescribable, Wyat staggered towards
the edge of the terrace--it might be with the design of flinging himself
from it--but when within a few yards of the low parapet wall defending
its precipitous side, he perceived a tall dark figure standing directly in
his path, and halted.
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