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THE FEAST OF DEATH.
For a long time the king had not appeared in such good spirits as on this festive evening.

For a long time he had not been so completely the tender husband, the good-natured companion, the cheerful bon-vivant.
The pains of his leg seemed to have disappeared, and even the weight of his body seemed to be less burdensome than usual, for more than once he rose from his chair, and walked a few steps through the brilliantly lighted saloon, in which the ladies and lords of his court, in festive attire, were moving gently to and fro; in which music and laughter resounded.

How tender he showed himself toward the queen to-day; with what extraordinary kindness he met the Duke of Norfolk; with what smiling attention, he listened to the Earl of Surrey, as he, at the king's desire, recited some new sonnets to Geraldine! This marked preference for the noble Howards enraptured the Roman Catholic party at court, and filled it with new hopes and new confidence.
But one there was who did not allow himself to be deceived by this mask which King Henry had to-day put on over his wrathful face.
John Heywood had faith neither in the king's cheerfulness nor in his tenderness.

He knew the king; he was aware that those to whom he was most friendly often had the most to fear from him.