King Henry himself was struggling for breath, and needed a moment to collect himself.
Not as though wrath and passion had deprived him of speech.

He was neither wrathful nor passionate, and it was only joy that obstructed his breathing--the joy of having again found a victim with which he might satisfy his desire for blood, on whose agony he might feast his eyes, whose dying sigh he might greedily inhale.
The king was never more cheerful than when he had signed a death-warrant.

For then he was in full enjoyment of his greatness as lord over the lives and deaths of millions of other men, and this feeling made him proud and happy, and fully conscious of his exalted position.
Hence, as he now turned to Anne Askew, his countenance was calm and serene, and his voice friendly, almost tender.
"Anne Askew," said he, "do you know that the words you have now spoken make you guilty of high treason ?" "I know it, sire." "And you know what punishment awaits traitors ?" "Death, I know it." "Death by fire!" said the king with perfect calmness and composure.
A hollow murmur ran through the assembly.

Only one voice dared give utterance to the word mercy.
It was Catharine, the king's consort, who spoke this one word.

She stepped forward, and was about to rush to the king and once more implore his mercy and pity.