The apartment entered by them was spacious, and sufficiently well adapted to the purpose to which it was applied Connected with it were two cells, which could be locked at night, and the walls, which were built of stone and of immense thickness, were pierced by four deep recesses, with narrow apertures strongly grated without. That the chamber had had many previous tenants was proved by the numerous melancholy memorials covering its walls. Its present unfortunate occupant had sought to beguile the weary hours by similar employment, and at the moment when the royal party invaded his solitude, he was engaged in carving a large crucifix on the stones.
Despite the terrible reverses he had experienced, and the weight of years—he was then considerably past seventy—the Duke of Norfolk was still a very noble-looking personage. Though shorn of wealth and honors, disgraced and attainted of high treason, his grandeur of soul enabled him to bear his unmerited misfortunes with dignity and fortitude. His lofty and stately figure was still proud and erect as in the summer season of his prosperity. He had fallen on evil days, but calamity had no power to shake him. His looks had ever been proud, as was not unnatural in the first peer of the realm, and his deportment singularly majestic; and both looks and deportment continued the same under the present trying circumstances. It is true that deep traces of care were visible on his pallid brow, and that his features were stamped with profound melancholy, but these changes only heightened the interest of his noble countenance. His grey beard had been allowed to grow to great length, and his hoary locks were untrimmed. On his head he wore a flat velvet cap, destitute of brooch, jewel, or plume. No collar of the Garter, bestowed on him by his own sovereign—no collar of St. Michael, given him by Francis the First, were placed round his neck. His attire was without ornament, and consisted of a long, loose, philemot-colored velvet gown, furred with sables, with a high collar and wide hanging sleeves, beneath which the tight sleeves of a russet doublet were discernible.
On hearing the entrance of the royal party, he ceased his occupation, and at once perceiving it was the king, he laid down the mallet and chisel, and doffing his cap, cast himself at Edward’s feet.
It was a touching spectacle to behold this reverend and noble-looking prisoner prostrate before the youthful monarch; but with the exception of Sir John Gage it failed to move any of the beholders with pity. Even Edward himself seemed to have followed his uncle’s stern counsel, and to have hardened his heart against the unfortunate duke.
Norfolk essayed to speak, but his emotion was too great to enable him to give utterance to his words, and a convulsive sob alone escaped him.
“Arise, my Lord Duke,” said Edward, coldly. “And I pray you put some constraint upon your feelings.”
“Will not your Highness suffer me to kiss your hand and pay you homage?” rejoined the duke, retaining his humble position.
“Attainted of high treason as thou art, Thomas Howard, thou art incapable of rendering homage, and his Highness cannot receive it from thee,” interposed the lord protector, severely. “This thou shouldst know. Arise, as thou art bidden.”
Recalled to himself by this harsh treatment, Norfolk got up, and said, in a mournful voice, “This, then, is the end of my long services to the king my master! Heaven grant me patience—I have sore need of it!”
Edward could not fail to be touched by the duke’s distress, and would have spoken to him had not Hertford again interposed. “Thou forgettest the heinous offences laid to thy charge, Thomas Howard,” he said, “and of which thou didst confess thyself guilty in thy submission made to his late Majesty. Thy offences against thy royal master far outweighed any services rendered by thee towards him, and justly provoked his ire. Had the late king been spared another day, thou wouldst not be here now.”
“I know it,” rejoined the duke; “but another and a mightier hand than thine, Edward Seymour, was at work for my preservation. My death-warrant was prepared at thy instigation, but it was not given to thee to accomplish thy work. My life has been wondrously spared—it may be for some good purpose. Thou, who mockest me in my distress, mayst be the first to perish.”
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