“It shall be done,” replied the constable, in a sombre tone. “Princess,” he added to Elizabeth, “your errand here is accomplished. Come with me, I pray you.”
While Somerset and Warwick were glancing at each other with ill-disguised satisfaction, Elizabeth approached them ere they were aware, and fixing a piercing look on the protector, said in a low, freezing tone, “Fratricide! your own turn will come soon.”
Then perceiving a smile flit across Warwick’s sombre countenance, she added to him:
“Ha! you smile, my lord. I read the secret of your soul. You would destroy both that you may rise and rule in their stead. But tremble! you will not walk steadily where the path is slippery with blood. You will fall likewise.”
And she quitted the chamber with Gage.
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Chapter V
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE EXECUTION
Not unprofitably may the admiral’s last hours be contrasted with those of another noble captive, who, only two years before, had occupied the selfsame cell in the Bowyer Tower. Equally comely with Seymour was that illustrious captive—equally proud, daring, and perhaps ambitious, but yet more highly born, more richly endowed in mind, and far less guilty than the admiral.
Often did Seymour, in his long and lonely hours, think of him—often did he recall their last interview, and the prophetic denunciation uttered by the ill-fated Surrey. But far more sadly, far more painfully, passed the last hours of Seymour’s existence than Surrey’s had done. The latter had no guilt upon his soul, but had the consolations of religion and philosophy to support him. He could pray—could make his shrift to his confessor and receive absolution. To Surrey it was hard to die—but he was prepared. Seymour’s conscience was heavily laden, yet could not be unburthened. Within him was a hell of fierce and conflicting passions, which he was compelled to endure. His pride sustained him, or he must have sunk beneath this mental torture. Groans and fierce imprecations burst from him—but he could not pray. He rejected, as we have seen, the efforts of Latimer and the Bishop of Ely. ‘Twould be in vain, he thought, to supplicate Heaven for forgiveness—his offences were too great. To man he would never acknowledge his guilt.
Thus passed the dreary hours of his last day on earth. He knew not that it was his last, because intimation had not yet been given him that the execution was appointed for the morrow, and hope, not yet wholly extinct within his breast, suggested that his life might be spared. But he was more perturbed in spirit than he had ever hitherto been. Only rarely did he sit down; but for the most part continued to pace fiercely to and fro within his cell, like a tiger in its cage.
Towards night he became somewhat calmer, and, feeling exhausted, sat down upon his chair, when sleep insensibly stole over him. His dreams instantly carried him away from his prison, and brought him back to all the splendors of his gorgeous palace. Once more he was at the head of a princely retinue—once more in a spacious and richly-furnished apartment—once more Elizabeth smiled upon him, and showed him how to win her hand.
From this bright dream he was suddenly and cruelly aroused by the drawing back of the ponderous bolts. The door opened, and the constable of the Tower came in with the warrant in his hand. His sad aspect, as revealed by the dim light of the lamp on the table, left no doubt as to the nature of his errand.
“Good-night, Sir John,” cried Seymour, rising, and speaking with forced composure. “I can guess the tidings you bring me.”
“My lord,” said Sir John, gravely, yet kindly, “you must prepare for eternity, for you will not see another night on earth. Your execution is fixed for to-morrow morning. It will take place on Tower-hill, and your remains will afterwards be buried in Saint Peter’s Chapel in the Tower.”
“Where I was married to the queen,” murmured Seymour, almost mechanically.
“Where you were married to the queen,” repeated the constable. “Here is the warrant,” he added, laying it before him.
“‘Tis signed by the king!” cried Seymour, staring at it. “I thought he loved me too well to do this. But there is no faith in princes. Did the Princess Elizabeth speak with him, as she promised, Sir John?”