"By whom wilt thou be tried?"

"By G.o.d and by my peers."

"Before we proceed," continued the Sergeant, "what sayest thou, Robert, Duke of Wess.e.x, is that which thou hast confessed true?"

"It is true."

"And didst thou confess it willingly and freely of thyself, or was there any extortion or unfair means to draw it from thee?"

"Surely I made that confession freely," replied the prisoner, "without any constraint, and that is all true."

"And hast thou read the depositions of those who were witness of thy crime, and who have added their testimony to that which thine accusers, the Queen's Commissioners, already know?"

"I have not read those depositions, as there was no one present when Don Miguel died save I--his murderer--and G.o.d!"

As Wess.e.x made this last bold declaration, the Queen's Serjeant turned towards His Eminence as if expecting guidance from that direction, but as nothing came he continued--

"I would have thee weigh well what thou sayest. Thine answers and confessions, if spoken truthfully, will do much to mitigate the severity of the punishment which thy crime hath called forth."

"I will make mine own confession," retorted Wess.e.x, with a sudden quick return to his own haughty manner. "I pray you teach me not how to answer or confess. But because I was not cognizant whether my peers did know it all or not, I have made a short declaration of my doings with Don Miguel. That is the truth, my lords," he added, addressing his triers and judges on the bench, "everything else which hath been added contrary to mine own confession is a lie and a perjury, as G.o.d here is my witness."

"Thy confession is but a brief record of the fact, as the Clerk of the Crown will presently read. There is neither circ.u.mstance nor detail."

"And is it for circ.u.mstance or detail that I am being tried?" rejoined Wess.e.x, "or for the murder of Don Miguel de Suarez, to which I hereby plead guilty?"

The Queen's Serjeant looked to Sir Robert Catline for guidance. The Lord Chief Justice, however, was of opinion that the prisoner's confession must be read first, before any further argument about it could be allowed.

The Clerk of the Crown then rose and began to read:--

"The voluntary confession of Robert Duke of Wess.e.x, now a prisoner in the Tower, and accused of murder, treason, and felony: made at the Tower of London on the fifteenth day of October, 1553. I hereby acknowledge and confess that on the fourteenth day of October I did unlawfully kill Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez, by stabbing him in the back with my dagger.

For this murder I plead neither excuse nor justification, and submit myself to a trial by my peers and to the justice of this realm. So help me G.o.d."

The bench, the entire hall, was crowded with the Duke's friends; with the exception of a very small faction, who for reasons they deemed good and adequate desired the Spanish alliance, and the death of the man at the bar, not a single man or woman present believed that that confession was an expose of the truth. The Serjeant himself, the Clerk of the Crown, the Attorney and Solicitor-General who represented the prosecution, knew that some mystery lurked behind that monstrous self-accusation. But it was so straightforward, so categorical, that unless some extraordinary event occurred, unless Wess.e.x himself recanted that confession, nothing could save him from its dire consequences.

Oh! if Wess.e.x would but recant! No one would have disbelieved him then--not that fickle, motley crowd surely, who with its own characteristic inconsequence had suddenly taken the accused to its heart.

"'Tis not true, Wess.e.x!" shouted a manly voice from the body of the hall.

"Deny it! deny it!" came in a regular hubbub from the compact ma.s.s of throats in the rear.

The Duke smiled, but did not move. Lord Rich, in his memoirs, here points out that "His Grace seemed all unconscious of his surroundings and like unto a wanderer in the land of dreams."

But the confession had aroused the opposition of the crowd, it was truly past honest men's belief. Every one murmured, and some chroniclers aver that there was a regular tumult, more than encouraged by the Duke's friends, and not checked even by the Lord High Steward himself.

In the turn of a hand public opinion had veered round. Forgetting that a while ago they were ready to hoot and mock the prisoner, the men now were equally prepared to make a rush for the bar and drag him away from that ignominious place, which they suddenly understood that he never should have occupied.

The Serjeant-at-Arms had much ado to make himself heard. The guard had literally to make an onslaught on the crowd. It was fully five or ten minutes before the noise subsided; then only did murmurs die down like the roar of the sea when the surf recedes from the sh.o.r.e.

It was a brief lull, and Mr. Barham, the Queen's Serjeant, having once more enjoined silence on behalf of Her Majesty's Commissioner, and on pain of imprisonment, was at last able to continue his duties.

"It appeareth before you, my lords," he resumed in a loud, clear voice, "that this man hath been indicted and arraigned of a most heinous crime, and hath confessed it before you, which is of record. Wherefore there resteth no more to be done but for the Court to give judgment accordingly, which here I require in the behalf of the Queen's Majesty."

The Lord High Steward rose and a gentleman usher took the white wand from him. He stood bareheaded, and every one in the Hall could see him.

"Robert, Duke of Wess.e.x," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke, "Duke of Dorchester, Earl of Launceston, Wexford, and Bridthorpe, Baron of Greystone, Ullesthorpe, and Edbrooke, premier peer of England, what have you to say why I may not proceed to judgment?"

The last words almost sounded like an appeal, of friend to friend, comrade to comrade. Lord Chandois' kindly eyes were fixed in deep sorrow on the man whom he had loved and honoured sufficiently to wish to see him on the throne of England.

There was an awed hush in the vast hall, and then a voice, clear and distinct--a woman's voice--broke the momentous silence.

"The Duke of Wess.e.x is innocent of the charge brought against him, as I hereby bear witness on his behalf."

Even as the last bell-like tones echoed through the great chamber a young girl stepped forward, sable-clad and fragile-looking, but unabashed by the hundreds of eyes fixed eagerly upon her.

In the centre of the room she paused, and, throwing back the dark veil which enveloped her face, she looked straight up at my Lord High Steward.

"Who speaks?" he asked in astonishment.

"I, Ursula Glynde," she replied firmly, "daughter of the Earl of Truro."

At sound of her voice Wess.e.x had started. His face became deathly pale and his hand gripped the ma.s.sive bar of wood before him, until every muscle and sinew in his arm creaked with the intensity of the effort. It was only after she had spoken her own name that he seemed to pull himself together, for he said--

"I pray your lordships not to listen. I desire no witnesses on my behalf."

His temples had begun to throb, a wild horror seized him at thought of what she might do. And her appearance, too, had set his heart beating in a veritable turmoil of emotions. For she stood now before him, before them all, as the vision of purity and innocence which he had first learnt to worship: that other self of hers, that mysterious, half-crazed being who had fooled and mocked him and then committed the awful crime for which he stood self-convicted, that had vanished, leaving only this delicate, ethereal being, the one whom he had clasped in his arms, whose blue eyes had gazed lovingly into his, whose lips had met his in that one mad, pa.s.sionate embrace.

When he interposed thus coldly, impa.s.sively, she shuddered slightly but she did not turn towards him, and he could only see the dainty outline of her fine profile, cut clear against a dark background of moving figures beyond. From the table at which she herself had been sitting and waiting all this while, and which was now in full view of the spectators, two advocates rose and joined the bench of judges. One of them, after a brief consultation with the Clerk of the Crown, turned respectfully towards the Lord High Steward.

"I humbly beseech your lordship," he said firmly, "and you, my lords, to hear the evidence of the Lady Ursula Glynde. There has been no time to obtain a written deposition from her, for G.o.d at the eleventh hour hath thought fit to move her to speak that which she knows, so that a dreadful error may not be committed."

"This is a great breach of customary procedure," said Mr. Thomas Bromley, the Solicitor-General, with a dubious shake of the head.

"Not so great as you would have us think, sir," commented Sir Robert Catline, "for e'en in the trial of the late-lamented Queen Catherine of blessed memory, my lord of Uppingham, whose depositions could not be taken previously, was nevertheless allowed to bear witness on behalf of the accused."

But the opinion of the most learned lawyer in England would not now have been listened to, if it had been adverse to the present situation. Lords and judges, n.o.blemen and spectators clamoured with every means at their command, short of absolute contempt of Court, that this new witness should be heard.

"How say you, my lords?" said the Lord High Steward eagerly, "bearing in mind the opinion of our learned colleague, ought we to hear this lady or no?"

"Aye! aye!" came from every voice on the bench.

"By Our Lady! I protest!" said Wess.e.x loudly.

"We will hear this lady," p.r.o.nounced the Lord High Steward. "Let her step forward and be made to swear the truth of her a.s.sertions."

Ursula came forward a step or two. Mr. Thomas Wilbraham, Attorney-General of the Court of Wards, who was sitting close by, held out a small wooden crucifix towards her. She took it and kissed it reverently.

"You are the Lady Ursula Glynde," queried Lord Chandois, "maid-of-honour to the Queen's Majesty?"