"Honour is already lost, my Queen, once it is at stake."
"But I will save you," cried Mary with ever-increasing vehemence, "in spite of yourself, in spite of your confessions, in spite of all these lies and deceptions. . . . I'll save you in the very teeth of your judges and your peers, and proclaim to the whole world that I saved you—guilty or not guilty, proud gentleman or felon—because my name is Mary Tudor, and that there is no law in England outside my will."
Pride and passion almost beautified her. Her love forthis man was the one soft, tender trait in her strange and complex character, but Tudor-like shewouldhave her way, she would rule his destiny, command his fate, tear and destroy everything around her so long as her caprice held sway. But he had suddenly risen to his feet, and stood confronting her now, tall and erect, with a pride as great, as obstinate as her own, a haughty dignity which neither Queen nor destiny, neither sorrow, disgrace or fear had the power to bend.
"Ere that dishonour fall upon us both, Your Majesty," he said firmly, "the last Duke of Wessex will lie in a suicide's grave."
Her eyes were fixed upon his, and he, carried away by the poignancy of this supreme battle fought by his pride against her passion, allowed her to read his innermost thoughts. He had nothing to hide from her now, not even his love, miserable and desperate as it was: but he wanted her to know that not even at this fateful moment, when he stood 'twixt a scaffold and a crown, did he waver in the firm resolve which had guided him throughout his life.
He wouldnotbecome the tool and minion of a Tudor queen—loving enough now, but endowed with all the vices and all the arrogance of her race; he would not barter his life in order to become the butt of contending political factions, the toy of ambitious parties, flattered by some, hated by most, despised by all. A courtier, a lapdog, an invertebrate creature without power or dignity.
Bah! the hangman's rope was less degrading!
And Mary, as she read all this in the expressive eyes which met hers fully and unwaveringly, realized that her cause was lost. She had staked everything on this one final appeal, but she, a Tudor, had struck against an obstinacy greater than her own. She could not flatter, she could not bribe, and he was—by the very hopelessnessof his present position—beyond the reach of threats or punishment.
He saw that her heart was admitting that she was vanquished. The hardness within him melted into pity.
"Believe me, my Queen," he said gently, "the memory of your kind words will accompany me to my life's end, it will cheer me to-morrow and sustain me to the last. And now for pity's sake," he added earnestly, "may I entreat Your Majesty to order the guard . . . and to let me go."
"That is not your last word, my lord," urged Mary with the insistence of a desperate cause. "Think. . . ."
"I have thought—much," he replied quietly. "Life holds nothing very tempting at best, does it? The honour of the Queen of England and mine own self-esteem were too heavy a price to pay for so worthless a trifle."
Mary would have spoken again, but just then there was a discreet knock at the door twice repeated. She had perforce to say—
"Enter!" and the next moment a page-in-waiting stood bowing before her.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"The Lord High Steward has arrived at the Palace, Your Majesty," announced the page, "and the Lieutenant of the Tower demands the prisoner."
"'Tis well! you may go."
"The Lieutenant of the Tower awaits Your Majesty's pleasure and His Grace of Wessex in the next room."
"'Tis well. The Lieutenant may wait."
The page bowed again and retired.
Then only did Mary Tudor's self-control entirely desert her. Forgetting all her dignity and pride, her self-will and masterfulness, she clung to the man she loved with passionate ardour, sobbing and entreating.
"No! no!—they shall not take you!—they dare not! Say but one word to me, my dear lord . . . what is it toyou?—'twere all my life to me. . . . What should we care for the opinion of the world?—Am I not above it? . . . so will you be when you are King of England. . . ."
Wessex had need of all his firmness, and of all his courage, to free himself as gently as he could from her clinging arms. He waited until her half-hysterical paroxysm of grief had subsided, smoothing with tender hand her moist hair and burning forehead. She was a woman beside herself with grief, almost sublime in this hour of madness.
"I will not let you go!" she repeated persistently.
Through the door there came the sound of a slight clash of arms. The Lieutenant of the Tower and his guard were impatiently waiting for their prisoner. Wessex saw Mary's whole figure stiffen at this muffled sound. Like an enraged animal she turned towards the door. For one second he wondered what she would do, how much humiliation her uncontrolled passion would heap upon him, through some mad, impulsive action. He jumped to his feet, and, regardless of all save the imminence of this critical moment, he seized both her wrists in an iron grip, striving through the infliction of this physical pain to bring back her wandering senses.
She looked him straight in the face with a tender and appealing gaze----
"Did you not know that I loved you even to humiliation?" she said.
"May God and all His angels bless you for that love," he replied earnestly, "but before Him and them I swear to you that if you do not allow the justice of your realm to have its will with me, I'll not survive your own disgrace and mine."
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out that picture of unbendable determination expressed in his whole attitude, and which she at last felt that nothing would conquer.The rigidity of her figure relaxed, the fury died out from her heart, she only felt inexpressibly sorrowful, helpless and broken-hearted.
"God be with you, my dear lord," she whispered.
He kissed her hands: all the fever had gone out of them, they were icy cold: there was neither arrogance nor obstinacy in her face now, her eyes were still closed, and one by one, heavy tears fell down her wan cheeks.
The pathos of her helplessness and of her crushed pride made a strong appeal to the sentiments of tender loyalty which he had always felt for her, who was his Queen and Liege Lady. He saw that she was determined not to break down, that she was gathering all her courage for the supreme farewell.
"I beseech Your Majesty to allow me to order the guard," he urged.
She tottered and would have fallen, had he not put out his arm to support her.
"Do not forget that you are a Tudor and a Queen, and remember," he added quaintly, as her head fell against his shoulder, "remember . . . I am only a man!"
He led her back to her seat, then he touched the handbell, and when the page appeared he said firmly—
"I am at the Lieutenant's service."
He knelt once more before the Queen and finally bade her farewell. She could neither speak nor move, and scarcely had the strength to take a last look at the loved one, as with a firm step he passed out of her sight.
There was a clash of steel against steel, a few words of command, the sound of retreating footsteps, then silence.
Queen Mary Tudor was alone with her grief.
But Mary would not have been the woman she was if she admitted a failure, whilst there was still a chance of victory.
The first half-hour after Wessex' departure she gave way to weakness and to a flood of tears, she turned to her prie-Dieu and prayed fervently for resignation to the heavenly will, for strength to bear her cross.
"Holy Mother of our crucified Lord, pray for me now and at the hour ofhisdeath," was the burden of her passionate orisons.
"Take my life sincehemust die," she added, striking her breast and falling prostrate before the holy images.
And then reaction set in. She felt more calm after her prayers, and began to think more clearly. The inevitableness of a catastrophe seemed to become less tangible, a persistent and hopeful "if" crept in amongst her desperate litanies. She dried her tears, rang for her waiting-woman, had her face bathed with soothing, scented waters, her temples rubbed with perfumed vinegar.
All the while now she repeated to herself—
"Iwillsave him . . . Iwillsave him . . . but how? . . . how?"
She had less than twenty-four hours in which to do it, and she had spent fourteen days previously in the same endeavour, without arriving at any definite plan, save the one which had so signally failed just now.
"If being found guilty I were acquitted at Your Majesty's desire, 'twould be said the Queen had saved her lover—and then married a felon!" was his sole reply to her impassioned query whether he loved her and would be saved by her command.
She would have been content to lose her honour for his sake, he would not even jeopardize his own self-esteem for hers. If he had one spark of love for her he would have been content to challenge the opinion of the world, whilst accepting his life at her hands, but he cared naught about death, and all the world for another woman who was false, a coward, a wanton, and who boldly allowed him to sacrifice his honour for her, whilst she herself had none to lose.
"Then I will save him in spite of himself," repeated Mary for the hundredth time.
Suddenly a thought struck her. She rang her hand-bell, and to the servitor who appeared at the door she commanded briefly—
"His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno;—I desire his presence here at once."
The servitor retired, and she waited in seeming calm, sitting at her desk, her trembling hand alone betraying the excitement of her mind.
Five minutes later, the Cardinal stood before her, placid, urbane, picturesque in his brilliant, flowing robes, with one white, richly be-ringed hand raised in benediction, as he stood waiting for the Queen to speak.
"I pray Your Eminence to be seated," began Mary, speaking with feverish haste. "I have something of grave import to say to you, which brooks of no delay, else I had not interrupted you at your orisons."
"My time is ever at Your Majesty's service," replied the Cardinal humbly. "In what way may I have the honour to serve the Queen of England to-day?"
He was looking keenly at her face: not a single sign of her intense mental agitation escaped his shrewd observation. A satisfied smile lurked round the corners of his thin lips, and a flash of triumph lit up the depths of his piercing eyes.
That searching glance at Mary Tudor had told the envoy of the King of Spain that victory was at last within his grasp.
"My lord Cardinal," rejoined Mary firmly, "you are aware of the fact that His Grace of Wessex is on the eve of being tried by his peers, for a heinous crime of which he is innocent."
"I am aware," replied the Cardinal gently, "that His Grace stands self-convicted of the murder of my friend and colleague Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez, a guest at Your Majesty's Court."
"Truce on this folly, my lord," retorted Mary impatiently, "you know just as well as I do, that His Grace is incapable of any such act of cowardice, and that some mystery, which no one can fathom, lies at the bottom of this monstrous self-accusation."
"Whatever may be my own feelings in this matter, Your Majesty," said His Eminence, still speaking very guardedly, "I was forced to accomplish my duty, when I made and signed my deposition, which I fear me has gone far towards confirming the guilt of His Grace."
"I have heard of your deposition, my lord. It rests on your finding His Grace's dagger. . . ."
"Beside the body of the murdered man, and still stained with Don Miguel's blood."
"What of that? Some one else must have used the dagger."
"Possibly."
"You did not suggest this in your deposition."
"It was not asked of me by His Grace's judges."
"There is time to make a further statement."
"It could but be in consonance with what I have already said."
"And your servant?"
"Pasquale?"
"He lied when he averred that he heard angry words 'twixt His Grace and Don Miguel."
"He has sworn it upon oath. Pasquale is a good Catholic, and would not commit the deadly sin of perjury."
"You are fencing with me, my lord," said Mary Tudor with sudden vehemence.
"I but await Your Majesty's command!" rejoined His Eminence blandly.
"My command?" she said firmly. "This, my lord, that you save His Grace of Wessex from the consequences of this crime, in which he had no hand."
"To save His Grace of Wessex?" he ejaculated with the greatest astonishment, "I? and at this eleventh hour? Nay! meseems that were impossible."
"Then Your Eminence can set your wits to attempt the impossible," rejoined Mary curtly.
"But why should Your Majesty suggest this strange task to me?" he urged with the same well-feigned surprise.
"Because Your Eminence hath more brains than most."
"Your Majesty is too gracious."
"And because you have the success of your own schemes more at heart than most," added the Queen significantly.
"Then, if I do not succeed in effecting the impossible, Your Majesty, am I to be sent back to Spain ignominiously to-morrow?" queried the Cardinal with more than a soupçon of sarcasm.
"No!" rejoined Mary quietly, "but if you succeed I will give you in reward anything which you may ask."
"Anything, my daughter? Even your hand in marriage to King Philip of Spain?"
"If Your Eminence succeeds in effecting the impossible," replied Mary firmly, "I will marry King Philip of Spain."
There was silence for a moment or two. His Eminence was meditating. Not that he had been taken unawares. For the past fortnight he had been expecting some such interview as the Queen had now demanded at the eleventh hour. He was far-seeing and shrewd enough to have anticipated that, sooner or later, Mary Tudor would propose a bargain, whereby he would be expected to pit his wits against Fate, and thereby earn the victory which she knew he coveted. The task was a difficult one; not impossible—for the Cardinal never admitted that anything was impossible. But he was peculiarly placed, and he knew the value of royal promises and of royal compacts. This one he thought he could enforce, but only if his methods were above suspicion. To have confessed the whole dastardly intrigue of that eventful night would certainly have saved the Duke from condemnation, but the tale itself would so disgust these stiff-necked Britishers, that Mary would see herself easily released from her promise through unanimous public opinion.
That simple and sure method of obtaining the Duke's acquittal was therefore barred to him, and he had perforce to reflect seriously, ere he closed with the bargain which Mary Tudor held so temptingly before him. His mind was clearer, less scrupulous than that of his colleagues, and he had most at stake now, for nothing but ultimate success could justify the heinousness of his methods. If his schemes failed, then these methods became monstrous and criminal beyond hope of pardon.
For the moment the Cardinal had no remorse. The sacrifice of every piece in the great human game of chess was of no importance if the final mating of his enemieswere gained. Don Miguel was dead, Lord Everingham far away; the wench Mirrab, terrified at her own act probably, had disappeared and no doubt would not be heard of again until His Eminence's victory was assured. This he had hoped to attain with the death of the Duke of Wessex and Mary's consequent grief and feebleness of will, always supposing that Lord Everingham did not return in time to ruin the whole scaffolding of his tortuous diplomacy.
That was the great danger and one which was ever present before the Cardinal's mind: the return of Lord Everingham. Every day added to the danger, and it was Wessex' own impatience to see the end of his own shattered existence, which had up to now saved His Eminence from exposure.
The Duke had urged that his trial should come on speedily. This was readily granted, for he was the Duke of Wessex still. The trial itself would not last more than the one day, seeing that the accused had made full confession and only a few secondary depositions were to be read for form's sake. His Grace had refused counsel, there could be no argument. The judges on the face of the circumstantial self-accusation were bound, in the name of justice, to convict and condemn, in spite of public opinion, in spite of the machinations of the Duke's friends, in spite even of the Queen's commands.
Once His Grace was out of the way, His Eminence had felt that he would be able to breathe more freely, but until then he was living at the edge of a volcano, and often wondered how it had not broken out ere now.
The news of the crime and of Wessex' arrest had been sent to Scotland, he knew that; but the way thither was long, the late October gales would make the journey by sea difficult, whilst the overland roads, sodden with the rain, were unusually bad; but in any event, Everingham was bound to arrive in England within the next ten days,for, of a surety, he would travel with mad speed on hearing the terrible news.
But now Mary Tudor suddenly offered him a definite promise, a bargain which he could clinch before exposure had shamed him publicly. The task proposed was indeed difficult, but it was not impossible to such a far-reaching mind as that of my lord Cardinal.
A few moments' deep reflection, whilst the Queen watched him eagerly, and he had already formed a plan.
"Does Your Eminence accept the bargain?" asked Mary impatiently at last, seeing that he seemed disinclined to break the silence.
"I accept it, Your Majesty," he replied quietly.
"You have my royal promise if you succeed."
"If His Grace to-morrow is acquitted by his judges, through my intervention," said His Eminence, "I will claim Your Majesty's promise in the evening."
"Your Eminence can have a document ready and I will sign it."
"It shall be done as Your Majesty directs."
"Then I'll bid Your Eminence farewell, until to-morrow."
"I am ever at Your Majesty's service. But before retiring I would crave one favour."
"I pray you speak."
"To speak to the Lady Ursula Glynde."
A long bitter laugh of the keenest disappointment came from Mary Tudor's oppressed heart.
"Nay!" she said in a tone of deep discouragement, "an you pin your faith on that hussy, Your Eminence had best give up the attempt at once."
"Did I not say that I would attempt the impossible?" said the Cardinal, unperturbed.
"The impossible indeed, an you wish to appeal to that wench," retorted Mary drily.
"Have I Your Majesty's permission to speak to the lady?" persisted the Cardinal blandly.
Mary shrugged her shoulders impatiently. She was terribly disappointed. All her hopes had been built on the clever machinations of this man, on some tortuous means which his brain would surely evolve if she held out a sufficiently tempting bait to him. She had half endowed him with supernatural powers . . . and now . . . an empty scheme to make an appeal to that heartless coward, who might save Wessex, yet refused to do it!
But the Cardinal was smiling: he looked a rare picture of benevolence and dignity, with those white hands of his which seemed ever ready for a caress. He looked triumphant too, his eyes were eagerly fixed upon her as if her consent to the useless interview was of great and supreme moment. To her the appeal to Ursula did not even seem to be a last straw, but something far more ephemeral, intangible, a breath from some mocking demon. Yet the Cardinal looked so satisfied. She shrugged her shoulders again, as if dismissing all hope, all responsibility, all interest, but she said nevertheless—
"When does Your Eminence desire to see her?"
"To-morrow in the Lord Chancellor's Court," he replied, "half an hour before the arrival of the Lord High Steward. Can that be done?"
"It shall be, since Your Eminence wishes it."
"And to-night I will announce the joyful news by special messenger to the King of Spain," he added significantly.
"Is Your Eminence so sure of success then?"
"As sure as I am of the fact that the Queen of England is the most gracious lady in Europe," he replied, with all the courtly grace which he knew so well how to assume. "I pray you then to trust in God," he concluded earnestly, "and in the devotion of Your Majesty's humble servant."
He took his leave ceremoniously, with pompous dignity, as was his wont. She did not care to prolong the interview, and nodded listlessly when he prepared to go. She felt more than ever hopeless and angered with herself for having clinched a bargain with that man.
But His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno left the presence of the Queen of England with a smile of satisfaction and a sigh of anticipated triumph.
It was not an appeal which he meant to address to the Lady Ursula Glynde.
The great Hall at Westminster was already thronged with people at an early hour of the morning, and the servants of the Knight Marshal and the Lord Warden of the Fleet had much ado to keep the crowd back with their tipstaves.
All London was taking a holiday to-day: an enforced holiday as far as the workers and merchants were concerned, for there surely would be no business doing in the City when such great goings-on were occurring at Westminster.
The trial of His Grace the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder! A trial which, seeing that the accused had confessed to the crime, could but end in a sentence of death.
It is not every day that it is given to humbler folk to see so proud a gentleman arraigned as any common vagabond might be, and to note how a great nobleman may look when threatened with the hangman's rope.
Is there aught in the world half so cruel as a crowd?
And His Grace had been very popular: always looked upon, even by the meanest in the land, as the most perfect embodiment of English pride and English grandeur, he had always had withal that certain graciousness of manner which the populace will love, and which disarms envy.
But with the exception of his own friends, people of his own rank and station, who knew him and his character intimately, the people at large never for a moment questioned his guilt.
He had confessed! surely that was enough! The loutish brains of the lower proletariat did not care to go beyond that obvious self-evident fact. The meaner the nature of a man, the more ready is he to acknowledge evil, he seeks it out, recognizes it under every garb. Who, among the majority of people, cared to seek for sublime self-sacrifice in an ordinary confession of crime?
The wiseacres and learned men, the more wealthy burgesses, and people of more consideration, were content with a few philosophical reflections anent the instability of human nature and the evil influences of Court life and of great wealth.
No one cared about the man! it was the pageant they all liked. What thought had the mob of the agonizing rack to which a proud soul would necessarily be subjected during the course of a wearisome and elaborate trial? They only wanted to see a show, the robes of the judges, the assembly of peers, and that one central figure, the first gentleman in England, once almost a king—now a felon!
A fine sight, my masters! His Grace of Wessex in a criminal dock!
Places in the Hall were at a premium. The 'prentices were well to the fore as usual; like so many eel-like creatures, they had slipped into the front rank as soon as the great doors had been opened. Some few waifs and vagrants—acute and greedy of gain—were making good trade with small wooden benches, which they sold at threepence the piece to those who desired a better view.
The women were all wearing becoming gowns, sombre of hue as befitted the occasion. His Grace of Wessex was noted for his avowed admiration for the beautiful sex. They had all brought large white kerchiefs, for they anticipated some exquisite emotions. His Grace was so handsome! there was sure to be an occasion for tears.
But only as a pleasurable sentiment! Like one feels at the play, where the actor expresses feelings, yet is himself cold and unimpassioned. What His Grace himself would feel was never considered. The crowd had come to see, some had paid threepence for a clearer sight of the accused, and all meant to enjoy themselves this day.
Proud Wessex! thou hast sunk to this, a spectacle for a common holiday! Thy face will be scanned lest one twitch escape! thy shoulders if they stoop, thy neck if it bend! A thousand eyes will be fixed upon thee in curiosity, in derision—perchance in pity!
Ye gods, what a fall!
The Lord High Steward of England was expected to arrive at ten o'clock. In the centre of the great court a large scaffold had been erected, not far from the Lord Chancellor's Court. In the middle of this there was placed a chair higher than the rest and covered with a cloth, which bore the royal arms embroidered at the four corners.
This was for my Lord High Steward.
Each side of him were the seats for the peers who were to be the triers. Great names were whispered, as the servants of the Knight Marshal arranged these in their respective places. There was the chair for the Earl of Kent, and my lord of Sussex, the Earl of Hertford, and Lord Saint John of Basing, and a score of others, for there were twenty-four triers in all.
On a lower form were the seats for the judges, and in a hollow place cut in the scaffold itself, and immediately at the feet of my Lord High Steward, the Clerk of the Crown would sit with his secondary.
And facing the judges and the peers was the bar, where presently the exalted prisoner would stand.
No one was here yet of the greater personages, the servants were still busy putting everything to right, butsome gentlemen of the Queen's household had already arrived, and several noble lords who would be mere spectators. His Grace's friends could easily be distinguished by the sombreness of their garb and the air of grief upon their faces. Mr. Thomas Norton, the Queen's printer, was sorting his papers and cutting his pens, and two gentlemen ushers were receiving final instructions from Garter King-at-Arms.
There was indeed plenty for the idlers to see. Great ropes had been drawn across the further portions of the Hall, leaving a wide passage from the main entrance right down the centre and up to the Lord High Steward's seat. Behind these ropes the crowd was forcibly kept back. And the gossip and the noise went on apace. Laughter too and merry jests, for this was a holiday, my masters, presently to be brought to a close—after the death sentence had been passed and every one dispersed—with lively jousts and copious sacks of ale.
But of all this excitement and bustle not a sound penetrated within the precincts of the Lord Chancellor's Court, where His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno sat patiently waiting.
Desirous above all things of escaping observation, he had driven over from Hampton Court in the early dawn, and wrapped in a flowing black cloak, which effectually hid his purple robes, he had slipped into the Hall and thence into the Inner Court, even before the crowd had begun to collect. Since then he had sat here quietly buried in thoughts, calmly looking forward to the interview, which was destined finally to unravel the tangled skein of his own diplomacy. Once more the destinies of Europe were hanging on a thread: a girl's love for a man.
Well! so be it! His Eminence loved these palpitating situations, these hairbreadth escapes from perilous positions which were the wine and salt of his existence.He was ready to stake his whole future career upon a woman's love! He, who had scoffed all his life at sentimental passions, who had used every emotion of the human heart, aye! and its every suffering, merely as so many assets in the account of his far-reaching policy, he now saw his whole future depending on the strength of a girl's feelings.
That she would certainly come, he never for a moment held in doubt. In these days the commands of a sovereign were akin to the dictates of God; to disobey was a matter of treason. Aye! she would come, sure enough! not only because of her allegiance to the Queen, but because of her intense, vital interest in the great trial of the day.
So His Eminence waited patiently in the Lord Chancellor's Court, which gave straight into the great Hall itself, until the appointed time.
Exactly at half-past nine the door of the room was opened, and Ursula Glynde walked in. The Cardinal rose from his seat and would have approached her, but she retreated a step or two as he came near and said coldly—
"'Tis Your Eminence who desired my presence?"
"And 'tis well that you came, my daughter," he replied kindly.
"I was commanded by Her Majesty to attend; I had not come of my own free will."
She spoke quietly but very stiffly, as one who is merely performing a social duty, without either pleasure or dislike. The Cardinal studied her face keenly, but obviously she had been told nothing by the Queen as to the precise object of this interview.
She looked pale and wan: there was a look of acute suffering round the childlike mouth, which would have seemed pathetic to any one save to this callous dissector of human hearts. Her eyes appeared unnaturally large, with great dilated pupils and dry eyelids. She was dressed in deep black, with a thick veil over her golden hair, whichgave her a nunlike appearance, and altogether made her look older, and strangely different from the gay and girlish figure so full of life and animation which had been one of the brightest ornaments of old Hampton Court Palace. The Cardinal motioned her to a seat, which she took, then she waited with perfect composure until His Eminence chose to speak.
"My child," he said at last, bringing his voice down to tones of the greatest gentleness, "I would wish you to remember that it is an old man who speaks to you: one who has seen much of the world, learnt much, understood much. Will you try and trust him?"
"What does Your Eminence desire of me?" she rejoined coldly.
"Nay! 'tis not a question of desire, my daughter, I would merely wish to give you some advice."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."
The Cardinal had taken the precaution of placing himself with his back to the light which entered, grey and mournful, through the tall leaded window above. He was sitting near a table covered with writing materials, and in a large high-backed tapestried chair, which further enhanced the ponderous dignity of his appearance, whilst helping to envelop his face in complete shadow. Ursula sat opposite to him on a low stool, that same grey light falling full upon her pale face, which was turned serenely, quite impassively upon her interlocutor.
His Eminence rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his head in his delicate white hands. The purple robes fell round him in majestic folds, the gold crucifix at his breast sparkled with jewels: he was a past master in the art ofmise-en-scène, and knew the full value of impressive pauses and of effective attitudes during a momentous conversation, more especially when he had to deal with a woman. His present silence helped to set theyoung girl's aching nerves on edge, and he noticed with a sense of inward satisfaction that her composure was not as profound as she would have him think: there was a distinct tremor in the delicate nostrils, a jerkiness in the movements of her hand, as she smoothed out the folds of her sombre gown.
"My dear child," he began once more, and this time in tones of more pronounced severity, "a brave man, a good and chivalrous gentleman, is about to suffer not only death, but horrible disgrace. . . . On the other side of these thin walls the preparations are ready for his trial by a group of men, whose duty it will be anon to allow the justice of this realm to take its relentless course. The accused will stand self-convicted, yet innocent, before them."
Once more the Cardinal paused: only for a second this time. He noticed that the young girl had visibly shuddered, but she made no attempt to speak.
"Innocent, I repeat it," he resumed after a while. "His Grace has many friends; not one of them will believe that he could be capable of so foul a crime. But he has confessed to it. He will be condemned, and he—the proudest man in England—will die a felon's death. . . ."
"I knew all that, Your Eminence," she said quietly. "Why should you repeat it now?"
"Only because . . ." said the Cardinal with seeming hesitation, "you must forgive an old man, my child . . . methought you loved His Grace of Wessex and . . ."
"Why does Your Eminence pause?" she rejoined. "You thought that I loved His Grace of Wessex . . . and . . . ?"
"And yet, my child, through a strange, nay, a culpable obstinacy, you, who could save him not only from death, but also from dishonour, you remain silent!"
"Your Eminence errs, as every one else has erred,"she replied with the same cold placidity; "I am silent because I have naught to say."
The Cardinal smiled with kind indulgence, like a father who understands and forgives the sins of his child.
"Let us explain, my daughter," he said. "That fatal night, when the Marquis de Suarez was killed, a woman was seen to fly from that part of the Palace where the tragedy had just taken place. . . ."
"Well?"
"Do you not see that if that woman came forward fearlessly and owned the truth, that it was from jealousy or even to defend her honour that His Grace killed Don Miguel, do you not see that no judge then will find him guilty of a wilful and premeditated crime?"
"Then why does not that woman come forward?" she retorted with the first sign of vehemence, noticeable in the quiver of her voice and the sudden flash in her pale cheeks, "why does she not speak? she for whose sake His Grace of Wessex not only took a man's life but is willing to sacrifice his honour?"
"She seems to have disappeared," said His Eminence softly, "perhaps she is dead. . . . Some say it was you," he added, leaning slightly forward and dropping his voice to a whisper.
"They lie," she replied. "I was not there. 'Tis not for me His Grace of Wessex will suffer both death and disgrace in silence."
This time His Eminence did not smile. There had been a sudden flash in his eyes at this quick, sharp retort—a sudden flash as suddenly veiled again. Then his heavy lids drooped; once more he looked paternal, benevolent, only just with a soupçon of sternness in his impassive face, the aloofness of an austere man towards the weaknesses of more mundane creatures.
Never for a moment did he reveal to the unwary younggirl all that he had guessed through her last unguarded speech.
Her love for Wessex! that he knew already! Its depth alone was a revelation to him. But her jealousy! How her lips had trembled and her hand twitched when speaking of another, an unknown woman who had called forth in Wessex that spirit of noble self-sacrifice, that immolation of his own honour and dignity, which had finally landed him in a criminal dock.
A woman's passion and a woman's jealousy! Two precious assets in His Eminence's present balance. He pondered over what he had learned, and victory loomed more certain than before. He loved this present situation, the acute tension of this palpitating moment, when he seemed to hold this beautiful woman's soul, bare and fettered, writhing with agony and self-torture.
To dissect a human heart! to watch its every quiver, to note the effect of every searing iron applied with a skilful hand! then to achieve success in the end through subtle arts and devices seemingly so full of benevolence, yet instinct with the most refined, most far-reaching cruelty! This was the form of enjoyment which more than any other appealed to the jaded mind of this blasé diplomatist. The feline nature within him loved this game with the trembling mouse.
But outwardly he sighed, a deep sigh of disappointment.
"Ah! if they lie!" he said, a gentle tone of melancholy pervading his entire attitude, "if indeed it was not you, my daughter, who were with Don Miguel that night . . . then naught can save His Grace. . . . He has suffered in silence. . . . He will die to-morrow in silence . . . and innocent."
He had risen from his chair, and began wandering about the narrow room—aimlessly—as if lost in thought. Ursula was staring straight before her. The first revelation of her present danger had suddenly come to her. As in a flash she had suddenly realized that this man had sent for her in order to use her for his own ends. She felt that she was literally in the position of the mouse about to be sacrificed to the greedy ambition of this feline creature, who had neither rectitude nor compunction where his ambition was at stake.
Yet after that one betrayal of her emotions she had made a vigorous effort to regain her self-control. Every instinct of self-preservation was on the alert now, and yet she knew already that she was bound to succumb. To what she could not guess, but she felt herself the weaker vessel of the two. He was calm and cruel, passionless and tortuous, whilst shefeltwith all her heart and soul and with all her senses.
And though he could not now see her face the Cardinal studied her every movement. He could see her figure stiffen with the iron determination to retain her self-possession, and inwardly he smiled, for he knew that the next moment all that rigidity would vanish, the marble statue would become living clay, the palsied nerves would quiver with horror, and she herself would fall, a weeping, wailing creature, supplicating at his feet.
And this by such a simple method!
Just the opening of a door! gently, noiselessly, until the sound from the Great Hall entered into this inner room, and voices clearly detached themselves from the confusing hubbub.
Then His Eminence whispered, "Hush, my daughter! listen! my Lord High Steward is speaking."
At first perhaps she did not hear, certainly she did not understand, for her attitude did not relax its uncompromising stiffness.
Lord Chandois was delivering his first speech.
"My lords and gentlemen," he said, "ye are hereassembled this day that ye may try Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, for a grievous and heinous crime, which he hath wilfully committed."
It was just the opening and shutting of a door—the claw of the cat upon the neck of the mouse. At first sound of Wessex' name Ursula had risen to her feet, straight and rigid like a machine. She did not look towards the door, but fixed her eyes on him—her tormentor—fascinated as a bird, to whom a snake has beckoned and bade it to come nigh.
The colour rose to her cheeks, the reality was gradually dawning upon her. That man who spoke in the Great Hall beyond was a judge—there were other judges there too. When she arrived at Westminster she had seen a great concourse of people, heard the names of great legal dignitaries whispered round her, and of peers who had been summoned for a great occasion.
That occasion was the trial of the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder.
"No, no, no," she whispered hoarsely, somewhat wildly, as she took a step forward; "no, no, no . . . not yet . . . it is not true . . . not yet——"
The thin crust of ice which had enveloped her heart was melting in the broad garish light of the actual, awful fact—the commencement of Wessex' trial.
She tottered and might have fallen but for the table close beside her, against which she leant.
Her calm and composure were flying from her bit by bit. She had at last begun to understand—to realize. Up to now it had all been so shadowy, so remote, almost like a dream. She had not seen Wessex since that last happy moment when he had pressed her against his heart . . . since then she had only heard rumours . . . wild statements . . . she knew of his self-accusation—the terrible crime which had been committed—but her hearthad been numbed through the very appalling nature of the catastrophe following so closely upon her budding happiness . . . it had all been intangible all this while . . . whilst now . . .
"The Duke hath made confession," said the Cardinal, and his voice seemed to come as if in direct answer to her thoughts. "In an hour at most judgment will be pronounced against him, and then sentence of death."
She passed her hand across her moist forehead, trying to collect her scattered senses. She looked once or twice at him in helpless, appealing misery, but his face now was stern and implacable, he seemed to her to be the presentment of a relentless justice about to fall on an innocent man. Her throat felt parched, her lips were dry, yet she tried to speak.
"It cannot be . . ." she repeated mechanically, "it cannot be . . . no, no, my lord, you are powerful . . . you are great and clever . . . you will find a means to save him . . . you will . . . you will . . . you sent for me. . . . Oh! was it in order to torture me like this that you sent for me?"
"My child. . . ."
"That woman?" she continued wildly, not heeding him, "that woman . . . where is she? . . . find her, my lord . . . find her, and let me speak to her. . . . Oh! I'll find the right words to melt her heart . . . she must speak . . . she must tell the truth . . . she cannot let him die . . . no, no . . . not like that. . . ."
Gone was all her pride, all her icy reserve, even jealousy had vanished before the awful inevitableness of his dishonour and his death. She would have dragged herself at the feet of those judges who were about to condemn him, of this man who was taking a cruel delight in torturing her; nay! she would have knelt and kissed the hands of that unknown rival, for whose sake she hadendured the terrible mental tortures of the past few days, if only she could wrench from her the truth which would sethimfree from all this disgrace.
"That woman!" she repeated with agonizing passion, "that woman . . . where is she? . . ."
"She stands now before me," said the Cardinal sternly, "repentant, I hope, ready to speak the truth."
"No! no! it is false!" she protested vehemently, "false I tell you! It was not I . . ."
Her voice broke in a pitiable, wistful sob, which would have melted a heart less stony than that which beat in the Cardinal's ambitious breast.
"Oh! have I not endured enough?" she murmured half to herself, half in appealing misery to him. "Jealousy—hate for that woman whom he loves as he never hath loved me . . . whom he loves better than his honour . . . for whose sake he will stand there anon, branded with infamy. . . ."
Her knees gave way under her, she fell half prostrate on the floor at the very feet of her tormentor.
"Find her, my lord," she sobbed passionately, "find her . . . you can . . . you can. . . ."
But for sole answer he once more pushed the door ajar.
Another voice came from the body of the hall now, that of Mr. Barham, the Queen's Serjeant—
"And having proved Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, guilty of this most heinous murder, I, on behalf of the Crown, will presently ask you, my lord, to pass sentence of death upon him."
"No, no, no—not death!" she moaned, "not death. . . . They are mad, my lord—are they not mad? . . . He guilty of murder! Oh! will no one come forward to prove him innocent?"
"No one can do that but you, my daughter," replied His Eminence sternly, as he once more closed the door.
"But you do not understand. In God's name, what would you have me do? I loved him, it is true, but . . . it was another woman . . . not I! another woman, whose honour is dearer to him than his own . . . for whose sake he killed . . . for whose sake he is silent . . . for whose sake he will die . . . but that woman was not I . . . not I!"
"Alas!" he replied placidly, "then indeed nothing can save His Grace from the block. . . ."
He sighed and returned to his former place beside the table, like a man who has done all that duty demanded of him, and now is weary and ready to let destiny take its course.
Ursula watched him dully, stupidly; she could not read just then what went on behind that mask of suave benevolence. Could she have read the Cardinal's innermost thoughts she would have seen that complete satisfaction filled his ambitious heart. He knew that he had succeeded, it was but a question of time . . . a few minutes, perhaps; but he had a good quarter of an hour to spare, in which the tortured soul before him would fight its last fight with despair. There was the long arraignment to be read out by the Clerk of the Crown, then the names of the triers to be called out in their order—all that, before the prisoner was actually called to the bar. Oh yes! he had plenty of time, now that he was sure of victory.
The girl wandered mechanically towards the door, her trembling hand sought the latch, but was too weak to turn it. She glued her ear to the lock and perchance heard a word or two, for even the Cardinal caught the sound of a loud voice reading the deadly indictment.
"The prisoner hath confessed . . .
"This most heinous crime . . .
"For which sentence of death. . .
"Return his precept and bring forth the prisoner."
Ursula straightened out her girlish figure; with a firm hand now she smoothed her veil over her hair, and rearranged the disordered folds of her kerchief. She crossed the room with an unfaltering step, and once more took a seat on the low stool opposite to His Eminence the Cardinal.
She seemed to have reassumed the same icy calm which she had worn earlier in the interview; she was quite pale again, and all traces of tears had disappeared from her eyes.
Quite instinctively, certainly against his will, the Cardinal failed to return the steady gaze which she now fixed upon him. As she sat there close to him, her great lustrous eyes trying to search his very soul, he knew that at last she had guessed.
Sheknewthat he was fully aware of the fact that she was not the woman for whose sake the Duke of Wessex was suffering condemnation at this very moment. All the meshes of the base intrigue which had landed the man she loved in a felon's dock escaped her utterly, but this much she realized, that the Cardinal had worked for the Duke's undoing, that he knew who her rival was, that he was wilfully shielding that woman, whilst callously sacrificing her—Ursula Glynde—to the success of some further scheme.
She knew all that, yet she did not hesitate. Her love for Wessex had filled all her life—first as a child, then as an ignorant girl worshipping an ideal. When she saw him, and in him saw the embodiment of all her most romantic beliefs, she loved him with all the passionate ardour of her newly awakened woman's heart. From the moment that his touch had thrilled her, that his voice had set her temples throbbing, that her pure lips had met his own, she had given him her whole love,given herself to him body and soul for his happiness and her own.
So great was her love that jealousy had not killed it; it had changed her joy into sorrow, her happiness into bitterness, but the heart which she gave to him she was powerless to take away. He had fooled her, led her to believe in his love for her, but his life was as precious to her now as it had been that afternoon—which seemed so long ago—when she first raised her eyes to his and met his ardent gaze.
She was face to face with the most cruel problem ever set before a human heart, for she firmly believed that if through her self-sacrifice she saved him from death and dishonour, he would nevertheless inevitably turn to the other woman, for whose sake he was suffering now; yet she was ready with the sacrifice, because of the selflessness of her love.
How well the Cardinal had managed the tragedy which had parted two noble hearts! Each believed the other treacherous and guilty, yet each was prepared to lay down life, honour, happiness for the sake of the loved one.
"Your Eminence," said Ursula very quietly after a little while, "you said just now that I could save His Grace of Wessex from unmerited disgrace and death. Tell me now, what must I do?"
"It is simple enough, my daughter," he replied, still avoiding her clear, steadfast gaze; "you have but to speak the truth."
"The truth, they say, oft lies hidden in a well, my lord," she rejoined. "I pray Your Eminence to guide me to its depths."
"I can but guide your memory, my daughter, to the events of the fateful night when Don Miguel was murdered."
"Yes?"
"You were there, in the Audience Chamber, were you not?"
"I was there," she repeated mechanically.
"With Don Miguel de Suarez, who, taking advantage of the late hour and the loneliness of this part of the Palace . . . insulted you . . . or . . ."
"Let us say that he insulted me. . . ."
"His Grace then came upon the scene?"
"Just as Your Eminence describes it."
"And 'twas to defend your honour that the Duke of Wessex killed Don Miguel."
"To defend mine honour the Duke of Wessex killed Don Miguel."
"This you will swear to be true?"
"Without hope of absolution."
"And you will make this tardy confession, my daughter, to His Grace's judges freely?"
"Whenever it is deemed necessary I will make the confession to His Grace's judges freely."
She swayed as if her senses were leaving her. Instinctively the Cardinal put out his arm to support her, but with a mighty effort she drew herself together, and looked down upon him with all the regal majesty of her own sublime self-sacrifice.
But, flushed with victory, His Eminence cared nothing for the contempt of the vanquished. It had been a hard-fought battle. His Grace was saved from death and Queen Mary Tudor could not help but keep her word. It was a triumph indeed!
He touched a hand-bell, a servant appeared. A few whispered instructions and the end was accomplished at last.
But, God in Heaven, at what terrible cost!
A surging, seething crowd! heads upon heads in a dense, compact mass—a double row of men, women, boys, and girls, held back with difficulty by the Serjeant-at-Arms and his men, armed with halberds and tipstaves!
A crowd come to gape and grin, some to sympathize—but only a very few of these. All come to see how the proudest gentleman in England would bear himself in a felon's dock.
The dull grey light of an early November day came in ghostly streaks through the huge window of the Hall, throwing into bold relief the scarlet-clad figures of the twenty-four noble lords who were to be the Duke's triers, the gorgeous robes of the judges, and the dull black gowns of the attorneys and the minor dignitaries.
Quick, excited whispers passed from mouth to mouth as now and then a familiar face detached itself from the crowd of all these awesome personages and was recognized by the people.
"That's my lord Huntingdon," said an elderly merchant, pointing to a grey-bearded lord who had just taken his seat. "I mind him well when first he bought a pair of spurs in my father's shop."
"Aye! and there's Lord Northampton," commented another, "and mightily thankful he should be not to be standing at the bar himself for high treason."
"That's Mr. Gilbert Gerard, the Attorney-General," quoth one who knew.
"Sh! sh! sh!" came in excited whispers all around, "here comes the Lord High Steward himself and all the judges."
The procession awed the populace, for every new-comer—gorgeously apparelled though he was—wore a grave face and a saddened mien. The crowd, who had come for a day's pageant, a frolic not unlike the happy doings at East Molesey Fair, felt suddenly silenced and oppressed. Some of the women shivered beneath their thin kerchiefs; the devout ones made a quick sign of the cross, as if prayers were about to begin.
It was all so solemn and so grand, in this dim winter's light, wherein shadows seemed to hover all around, hiding the remote corners of the Hall and dwelling mysteriously on that tall scaffold, whereon one by one these reverend personages took their allotted seats.
The Queen's Serjeant carried the white rod, and escorted my Lord High Steward to the great chair, covered with a gorgeous cloth, which dominated the entire hall. To the right and left of him sat the twenty-four peers with their ermine-decked cloaks over their shoulders.
Below them sat the Lord Chief Justice of England, the Lord Chief Justice of Common Pleas, and the Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer, and also the rest of the minor judges. The Clerk of the Crown, in black gown and yellow hose, had been busy some time conversing with his secondary. Next to the judges sat several gentlemen of the Queen's household, their silken doublets of rich though sombre hues adding a crisp note of contrasting colour to the harmonies in scarlet and dull oak, which filled in the background of the picture.
Sir Walter Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exchequer,sat close by with six of the Queen's Privy Councillors, also on their left the Master of Requests and other persons of note. Immediately facing the bar was the Queen's Serjeant, the Attorney-General, the Solicitor-General, and the Attorney-General of the Court of Wards. The Recorder of London had been given a special seat, also Mr. Thomas Norton, the Queen's printer, who wrote out the historical account of the trial, which has been preserved amongst the State papers.
Then my Lord High Steward stood up bareheaded, holding the white rod in his hand, and the Serjeant-at-Arms stepped forward into the immediate centre of the Hall facing the crowd, and read out the proclamation as follows:—
"My Lord's Grace, the Queen's Majesty's Commissioner, High Steward of England, commandeth every man to keep silence on pain of imprisonment and to hear the Queen's Commission read."
This was followed by the reading of the Queen's Commission by the Clerk of the Crown, after which—still standing—he read the indictment in a loud voice, so that all might hear.
"Whereas Robert d'Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, did on the night of the fourteenth of October of this year of our Lord one thousand five hundred and fifty-three, unlawfully kill Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez, grandee of Spain . . ."
The voice of the Clerk went droning on, the people amazed, horrified, tried not to lose one single word of this strange document which so loudly proclaimed the fact that a dastardly crime, unparalleled in its cowardice and ferocity, had been committed by one who until now had stood above all Englishmen as a model of honour, loyalty, and truth.
With every fresh charge, skilfully woven together andintertwined with sundry depositions obtained from my lord Cardinal and his retinue, the crowd of spectators realized more and more that they were face to face with a weird and mysterious tragedy, not a pageant, but an appalling drama, the prologue of which was being enacted before them now.
It seemed, as the Clerk pursued his reading, that he was slowly unfolding mesh by mesh a hideous web, in the midst of which the presence of a death-dealing and loathsome spider could as yet only be dimly guessed.
A close, clinging web from which no man, be he the premier peer of England or the humblest commoner, could ever hope to escape.
The web of a rough and misguided justice, of a law of the talion, retributive and blind, distributing with an impartial hand condemnations and punishments to guilty and innocent alike, to the martyr and to the felon, to the coward and the deceived.
This was not a decadent, puny century, peopled with neurotics and feeble-minded weaklings, it was a century of men!—men who were giants alike in their virtues and their passions, their vices and their atrocities, narrow in their views, but staunch in their beliefs, savage in their creeds and prejudices—butMENfor all that.
"The more heinous the offence the less chance shall the prisoner have of justifying his conduct." That was the dictate of the law.
"For truly," said Sir Robert Catline, Lord Chief Justice of England, in the course of the trial of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton for high treason, "justice must not be confused by sundry arguments in the prisoner's cause, which might lead to his acquittal and the non-punishment of so grave a fault."
Witnesses were seldom, if ever, examined in the presence of the accused. Depositions were extorted—oftenby torture, always by threats—from persons who happened to be friends or associates of the prisoner.
An acquittal?—perish the thought! Let the citizen look to himself ere he fell in the clutches of his country's justice; once there he had little or no chance of proving his innocence.
Lest the guilty escape!
Always that awful possibility! Rough justice demanded punishment—always punishment—lest the guilty escape!
And the people as they listened knew that they had come to see a man's last day upon earth.
Proud, rich, fastidious Wessex! this is the end of all things! Pomp and ceremony, gorgeous robes and costly apparels! these to speed thee on thy way; but as inevitably as the dull winter's night must follow this grey November morning, so will pomp and circumstance fade away into the past and leave thee with but one red-clad figure by thy side—that of the headsman with the axe.
Justice to-day could make short work of her duties.
Robert d'Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, had confessed to his crime, why should Justice trouble herself to prove that which was already admitted? She had merely to think out the form and severity of the punishment for this man of high degree, who had sunk and stooped so low.
For form's sake a few depositions had been taken, for this was an unusual event—a specially atrocious crime! the murder of a foreign envoy at the Court of the Queen of England, and at the hand of the premier peer of the realm!
The Cardinal de Moreno, envoy in chief of His Majesty the King of Spain, had given the matter a political significance. In the name of his royal master he had demanded judgment on that most monstrous felony,and the exercise of the full rigour of the law. The Duke of Wessex had been a rival suitor for the hand of the Queen of England, and he had—presumably—wilfully removed a successful diplomatist who threatened to thwart his projects.
And thus Wessex was arraigned for treason as well as for murder, and the indictment set forth the depositions of my lord Cardinal and those of his servant Pasquale, all of which His Grace had declined to peruse. He knew that these statements were lies, guessed well enough how his enemies would heap proof upon proof to bolster up his own brief confession.
His Eminence had made a sworn statement that he heard angry voices 'twixt Don Miguel and His Grace some little time before the Marquis was found dead. Well, that was true enough! Therehadbeen a deadly quarrel, and though this did not aggravate the case, it helped to establish the facts, if public opinion was like to sway the judges or if disbelief in Wessex' guilt was too firmly rooted in the minds of his peers.
The indictment was a masterpiece, well could the Solicitor-General pride himself on the perfection of the document.
A dull, oppressive silence had fallen upon this vast concourse of people. Interest, which was at fever-pitch, had forcibly to be kept in check, but now, as the Clerk's final words echoed feebly through the vast hall, a great sigh of eager excitement rose from the entire multitude.
Everything so far had been but preliminary, the somewhat dull, lengthy prologue of the coming palpitating drama. But at last the curtain was about to rise on the first act, and the chief actor was ready to step upon the stage.
Already from afar loud murmurs and excited cries proclaimed the approach of the prisoner.
"He hath arrived from the Tower," whispered the 'prentices to one another.
The distant murmurs grew in volume, then came nearer and nearer. All necks were craned to see the Duke arrive, and even the repeated calls of the Serjeant-at-Arms demanding silence were now left unheeded.
Whispers passed from lip to ear. Comments and conjectures flew through the crowd. Was not this the most interesting moment of this interesting day?
"How would he carry himself?"
"How would he look?"
"How doth a nobleman look when he becomes a felon?"
"Silence! Here they come!"
The Serjeant-at-Arms once more stood up before the people and loudly read a proclamation, calling upon the Lieutenant of the Tower of London to return his precept and bring forth his prisoner.
This was responded to by a call of "Present!" from outside, followed by a loud tumult. The next moment the great doors of the Hall were thrown open, six armed men entered and walked straight up the centre aisle towards the bar.
Behind them appeared the Lieutenant of the Tower of London, with Lord Rich, and between them was Robert d'Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, the prisoner.
Dressed all in black, he looked distinctly older than the crowd had remembrance of him. A sigh of excited anticipation went all along the line, a regular bousculade ensued; the people behind trying to catch a nearer glimpse of the Duke and pushing those who were in front. The 'prentices, who were squatting in the foremost rank on the ground, were violently jerked forward, some fell on their faces right up against the Lieutenant and my lord Rich, seeing which and the general excited confusion the Duke was observed to smile.
A woman in the crowd murmured—
"The Lord bless his handsome face!"
"Heaven ward Your Grace!" added another.
The women's pity—and that only momentarily. And the awful publicity of it all! Among the men wagers were offered and taken in his hearing as he passed, whether sentence of death would be passed on him or not.
"Will they hang him, think you?"
"No, no, 'tis always the axe for noble lords; but they'll have him drawn and quartered for sure."
"God help Your Grace!" sighed the women.
Indeed, if pride was a deadly sin, how deadly was its punishment now.
The crowd was not hostile, only indifferent, curious, eager to see; and every remark made by these stolid gapers must have cut the prisoner like a blow.
They watched him cross the entire length of the hall, commenting on his appearance, his clothes, his past life, a coarse jest even came to his ears now and again, a laugh of derision or an exclamation of satisfied envy.
Fallen Wessex indeed!
He tried with all his might not to show what he felt, and evidently he succeeded over well, for Mr. Thomas Norton, in his comments on the trial, states placidly:—