All this was the work of an instant. Undismayed by the occurrence, Mary, who inherited all her father’s intrepidity, looked calmly round, and pressing Bedingfeld’s arm in grateful acknowledgment of the service he had rendered her, issued her commands that the assassin should be secured, strictly examined, and, if need be, questioned on the rack. She then proceeded to the place of embarkation as deliberately as if nothing had happened. Pausing before she entered the barge, she thus addressed her preserver:—
“Sir Henry Bedingfeld, you have ever been my loyal servant. You were the first, during the late usurpation, to draw the sword in my defence, the first to raise troops for me, to join me at Framlingham, to proclaim me at Norwich. But you have thrown all these services into the shade by your last act of devotion. I owe my life to you. What can I do to evince my gratitude?”
“You have already done more than enough in thus acknowledging it, gracious madam,” replied Sir Henry; “nor can I claim any merit for the action. Placed in my situation, I am assured there is not one of your subjects, except the miscreant who assailed you, who would not have acted in the same manner. I have done nothing, and deserve nothing.”
“Not so, sir,” returned Mary. “Most of my subjects, I believe, share your loyalty. But this does not lessen your desert. I should be wanting in all gratitude were I to let the service you have rendered me pass unrequited. And since you refuse to tell me how I can best reward you, I must take upon myself to judge for you. The custody of our person and of our fortress shall be entrusted to your care. Neither can be confided to worthier hands. Sir John Gage shall receive another appointment. Henceforth, you are Lieutenant of the Tower.”
This gracious act was followed by the acclamations of the bystanders; and the air resounded with cries of “God save Queen Mary!—a Bedingfeld!—a Bedingfeld!”
“Your majesty has laid an onerous duty upon me, but I will endeavour to discharge it to your satisfaction,” replied Sir Henry, bending the knee, and pressing her hand devotedly to his lips. And amid the increased acclamations of the multitude, Mary entered her barge.
Edward Underhill, meanwhile, whose atrocious purpose had been thus providentially defeated, on perceiving that his royal victim had escaped, uttered an ejaculation of rage and disappointment, flung down the arquebus, and folding his arms upon his bosom, awaited the result. Fortunately, an officer accompanied the soldiers who seized him, or they would have hewn him in pieces.
The wretched man made no attempt to fly, or to defend himself, but when the soldiers rushed into the room, cried, “Go no further. I am he you seek.”
“We know it, accursed villain,” rejoined the foremost of their number, brandishing a sword over his head. “You have slain the queen.”
“Would I had!” rejoined Underhill. “But it is not the truth. The Lord was not willing I should be the instrument of his vengeance.”
“Hear the blasphemer!” roared another soldier, dealing him a blow in the mouth with the pummel of his dagger, that made the blood gush from his lips. “He boasts of the villainy he has committed.”
“If my arm had not been stayed, I had delivered the land from idolatry and oppression,” returned Underhill. “A season of terrible persecution is at hand, when you will lament as much as I do, that my design has been frustrated. The blood of the righteous would have been spared; the fagots at the stake unlighted; the groans of the martyrs unheard. But it is the Lord’s will that this should be. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
“Silence, hell-dog!” vociferated a third soldier, placing the point of his halbert at his breast. “Dost think Heaven would approve the foul deed thou meditatedst? Silence! I say, or I will drive my pike to thy heart.”
“I will not be silent,” rejoined Underhill, firmly. “So long as breath is left me, I will denounce the idolatrous queen by whom this unhappy land is governed, and pray that the crown may be removed from her head.”