Leaving him, however, in this state of dreadful incertitude, we must go back to the Earl of Surrey, whose fate had been sealed, and visit him in his cell within the Bowyer Tower on the night previous to his execution.
In a narrow, octangular stone chamber, arched and groined, and having walls of immense thickness, pierced with deep embrasures, which were strongly grated on the outside, sat the unfortunate young nobleman. An iron cresset lamp dimly illumined the cell. A book lay upon the rude oak table, beside which the earl was seated; but though his eyes seemed to dwell upon the leaves, his thoughts were far away. Petrarch for the first time failed to fix his attention. The young earl was prepared to meet his fate. But with such brilliant prospects before him, with such keen relish of life and all its enjoyments as he possessed, with so much unaccomplished, with so much to bind him to the world, it was hard to perish in the flower of his age.
Surrey was then but seven-and-twenty, and though he might, if spared, have reached a higher point than he ever attained, he was distinguished above all his compeers for gallantry, courtliness, prowess, learning, and wit. After greatly distinguishing himself in the wars with France in 1544, he was made lieutenant-general in the expedition against Boulogne. A preux chevalier of the school of Bayard, he was no unworthy disciple of Petrarch. His graces of person were equal to his graces of mind, and a statelier figure and a nobler or more intellectual countenance than Surrey’s could nowhere be found.
On his arraignment at Guildhall he had appeared in a doublet of black tylsent, welted with cloth of silver, black silk hose, and a black velvet cassock, lined with crimson silk and furred with sable; and he wore the same garments now—with the exception of the cassock, which he had flung upon a stool—and meant to die in them.
Closing Petrarch, Surrey took up a copy of Virgil, which was lying on the table, and, being provided with writing materials, he set resolutely to work to translate a passage from the Æneid. He was occupied in this task when the withdrawing of a bolt on the outside of the door, roused him, the key grated in the lock, and the next moment a gaoler, carrying a light, entered the cell.
“Bring you the ghostly father I have asked for to hear my shrift, Master Tombs?” the earl demanded.
“The priest is not yet arrived, my lord,” Tombs replied. “The Constable of the Tower is without, and another with him.”
“What other?” cried Surrey, springing to his feet. “Is it the duke, my father? Speak, man!—quick!”
“No, my lord. I know not who it may be,” answered Tombs; “but assuredly it is not his Grace of Norfolk, for I left him not an hour ago in the Beauchamp Tower. Perchance it is one of the council.”
As the words were uttered, Sir John Gage passed through the doorway, and in so doing had to stoop his lofty head. He was followed by another tall personage, wrapped in a long black mantle, and so muffled up that his features could not be distinguished. Surrey, however, heeded not the latter, but, advancing towards the constable, and warmly grasping his hand, exclaimed, “This is well and kindly done, Sir John. You have come to bid me farewell.”
“Would I were the bearer of the king’s grace to you, my lord!” rejoined Gage, in tones of deep emotion. “But it is not so. I am indeed come to bid you a last adieu.”
“Then, as my friend, worthy Sir John—and such you have ever shown yourself, and never more than now—you will be glad to find that I am indifferent to my fate—nay, not altogether indifferent, but resigned. I have philosophy enough to support me in this hour of trial, and am content to die.”
“You amaze me!” exclaimed the constable. “I did not think you possessed such firmness of soul.”
“Nor I,” added the muffled individual.
“Who is it speaks?” Surrey demanded. “Methinks I know the voice. I feel as if an enemy stood before me.”
“Your instinct has not deceived you, my lord,” Sir John Gage observed, in a low tone.
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