He had done with life and earthly things.

He had set his house in order and made his will; he had written to his mother and sister, and forgiven them for their treachery and accusation; he had addressed a letter to his father, in which he exhorted him, in words as noble as they were touching, to steadfastness and calmness, and bade him not to weep for him, for death was his desire, and the grave the only refuge for which he longed.
He had then, as we have said, done with life; and earthly things no longer disturbed him.

He felt no regret and no fear.

Life had left him nothing more to wish; and he almost thanked the king that he would so soon deliver him from the burden of existence.
The future had nothing more to offer him; why then should he desire it?
Why long for a life 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.