"I am."

"Then do I charge you to speak the truth, the whole truth, and naught but the truth, so help you G.o.d."

"My lords," protested Wess.e.x hotly, for his brain was in a whirl. He could not allow her to speak and accuse herself of her crime--she, the angel side of her, taking upon herself the evil committed by that mysterious second self over which she had no control. It was too horrible! And all these people gaping at her made his blood tingle with shame. What he had readily borne himself, the disgrace, the staring crowd, the pity and inquisitiveness of the mult.i.tude, that he felt he could not endure for her.

Already, as he saw her now, his heart had forgiven her everything; gladly, joyously would he die now, since he had seen her once more as she really was, pure and undefiled by contact with the ign.o.ble wretch whom, in a moment of madness, she had sent to his death.

He protested with all his might. But it was his own past life, his friends, his popularity, which now literally conspired against him, and caused his judges to turn a deaf ear to his entreaties.

"My lord of Wess.e.x," said the High Steward sternly, "in the name of justice and for the dignity of this court, I charge you to be silent."

Then he once more addressed the Lady Ursula.

"Say on, lady. This court will hear you."

She waited a few moments, whilst every spectator there seemed to hear his own heart beat with the intensity of his excitement. Then she began speaking in a firm and even voice, somewhat low at first, but gaining in strength and volume as she proceeded.

"I would have you know, my lords," she said, "that at midnight on the fourteenth day of October, being in the Audience Chamber at Hampton Court Palace, in the company of Don Miguel de Suarez . . ."

She paused suddenly and seemed to sway. Mr. Thomas Wilbraham ran to her, offering her a chair, which she declined with a quick wave of the hand.

"My lords," said Wess.e.x, quietly and earnestly, during the brief lull caused by this interruption, "I entreat you in the name of justice, do not hear this lady; she is excited and overwrought and knows not the purport of what she is saying. . . . You see for yourselves she is scarce conscious of her actions. . . . I have made full confession . . . there rests nothing to be done. . . ."

"Prisoner at the bar," said the Lord High Steward, "I charge you to be silent. Lady Ursula, continue."

And Wess.e.x perforce had to hold his peace, whilst Ursula resumed her tale more calmly.

"Being in company of Don Miguel, who spoke words of love to me . . . and anon did hold me in his arms . . . when I tried to escape . . . but . . . but . . . he would not let me go . . . he . . . he . . . your lordships, have patience with me, I pray you . . ." she added in tones of intense pathos as the monstrous lie she was so sublimely forcing herself to utter seemed suddenly to be choking her. Then she continued speaking quickly, lest perhaps she might waver before the end.

"His Grace of Wess.e.x did come upon us, and seeing me held with violence, I, who was his betrothed, to save mine honour, the Duke did strike Don Miguel down."

There was dead silence as the young girl had finished speaking. Wess.e.x was staring at her, and Mr. Thomas Norton a.s.sures us that he burst out laughing, a laugh which the Queen's printer stigmatizes as "heartless and unworthy a high-born gentleman! for truly," he continues, "the Lady Ursula Glynde was moved by the spirit of G.o.d in thus making a tardy confession, and His Grace, methinks, should have shown a proper spirit of reverence before this manifestation of G.o.d."

But if Wess.e.x laughed at this supreme and palpitating moment, surely his laugh must have come from the very bitterness of his soul. As far as he knew Ursula had told nothing but a strangely concocted lie. To him, who had--as he thought--seen her with the blood of Don Miguel still warm upon her hands, this extraordinary tale of threatened honour and timely interference was but a tangled tissue of wanton falsehoods--another in the long series which she had told to him.

And purposeless too!

He had no idea of any sacrifice on her part, and merely looked upon her present action as a weak attempt to save him from the gallows and no more.

She just liked him well enough apparently not to wish to see him hang, but that was all. And this suddenly struck him as ridiculous, paltry, and childish, a silly bravado which caused him to laugh. Perhaps she desired to save him publicly at slight cost to herself, in order that she might yet occupy one day the position which she had so avowedly coveted since her childhood--that of d.u.c.h.ess of Wess.e.x!

It was indeed more than ridiculous.

The stain of murder, which was really on her hands, she was full willing that it should rest on him, only slightly palliated by the lie which she had told.

Strange, strange perversion of a girlish soul!

With dulled ears and brain in a turmoil Wess.e.x only partly heard the questions and cross-questions which his judges now put to her. She never wavered from her original story, but repeated it again and again, circ.u.mstantially and without hesitation. Never once did she look towards the bar.

"Lady Ursula Glynde," said Lord Chandois finally and with solemn earnestness, "do you swear upon your honour and conscience that you have spoken the truth?"

And she replied equally solemnly--

"I swear it upon mine honour and conscience."

"'Tis false from beginning to end," protested Wess.e.x loudly.

Ursula made a low obeisance before my Lord High Steward. The crucifix was once more held up to her and she kissed it reverently. With that pious kiss she reached at that moment the highest pinnacle of her sacrifice--she gave up to the man she loved the very spotlessness of her soul. For his sake she had lied and spoken a false oath--she had sinned in order that he might be saved.

And even now she also reached the greatest depth of her own misery, for, as she told her tale before his judges and before _him_, she half expected that he would exonerate her from the odious accusations which she was bringing against herself.

The story which she had told had been in accordance with the Cardinal's suggestions, but she herself was quite convinced that Don Miguel had fallen by a woman's hand. Wess.e.x would never have hit another man in the back--that was woman's work, and she who had done it was so dear to him, that he was sacrificing life and honour in order to shield her.

Aye! more than that! for was he not acting a coward's part by allowing Ursula Glynde to sacrifice her fair name for the sake of a wanton?

And thus these two people who loved one another more than life, honour, and happiness, were face to face now with that terrible misunderstanding between them:--still further apart from each other than they had ever been, both suffering acutely in heart and mind for the supposed cowardice and wantonness of the other, and the while my Lord High Steward and the other n.o.ble lords were concluding the ceremonies of that strange, eventful trial.

"My lords," said Lord Chandois, once more rising from his seat, "you have heard the evidence of this lady, and Robert Duke of Wess.e.x having put himself upon the trial of G.o.d and you his peers, I charge you to consider if it appeareth that he is guilty of this murder or whether he had justification, and thereupon say your minds upon your honour and consciences."

We have Mr. Thomas Norton's authority for stating that my lords, the triers, never left their seats, nor did they deliberate. Hardly were the words out of my Lord High Steward's lips than with one accord four-and-twenty voices were raised saying--

"Not guilty!"

"Then," adds Mr. Norton, "there was a cheer raised from the people inside the Hall which was quite deafening to the ears. Sundry tossed their caps into the air, and many of the women began to cry. My Lord High Steward could not make himself heard for a long while, at which he became very wrathful, and, calling to the Serjeant-at-Arms, he bade him clear the Court of all these noise-makers."

There seems to have been considerable difficulty in doing this, for Mr.

Thomas Norton continuously refers to "riotous conduct," and even to "contempt of the Queen's Commissioner." Cheers of "G.o.d save Wess.e.x!"

alternated with the loyal cry of "G.o.d save the Queen." The men-at-arms had to use their halberds, and did so very effectually, one or two of the more excited "noise-makers" getting wounded about the face and hands. Finally the suggestion came from Mr. Barham, the Queen's Serjeant, that His Grace of Wess.e.x should be concealed from the view of the populace, and, acting upon this advice, the Lieutenant of the Tower ordered his guard to close around the bar, whilst a low seat was provided for His Grace. The object of this mad enthusiasm being thus placed out of sight, the people became gradually more calm, and the noise subsided sufficiently for the Queen's Serjeant to give forth his final dictum.

"My Lord's Grace, the Queen's Commissioner, High Steward of England, chargeth all persons to depart in G.o.d's peace and the Queen's, and hath dissolved this Commission!"

"G.o.d save the Queen!" was shouted l.u.s.tily, and then the great door was opened and the people began quietly to file out.

The pale November sun had struggled out of its misty coverings, and touched the pinnacles and towers of the old Abbey with delicate gleams of golden grey. Slowly the crowd moved on, some of the more venturesome or more enthusiastic townsfolk, the 'prentices, and younger men, lingered round the precincts to see the great personages come out and to give a final cheer for His Grace of Wess.e.x.

The Hall itself seemed lonely now that the people had gone. The Lord High Steward once more called on the prisoner, who had already risen as soon as his noisy partisans had departed.

As he had been impa.s.sive throughout the terrible ordeal of this trial for his life, so he remained now that on every face before him he read the inevitable acquittal. He had watched Ursula Glynde's graceful figure as, accompanied by the Cardinal de Moreno, she had finally made an obeisance before the judges, then had retired through the doors of the Lord Chancellor's Court.

A great and awful disgust filled his whole heart. It was he now who was conscious of the loathsome web, which had enveloped him more completely than he had ever antic.i.p.ated.

He saw his acquittal hovering on the lips of his peers. Lord Chandois'

kindly face was beaming with delight, Sir Robert Catline and Mr. Gilbert Gerard were conversing quite excitedly: his own friends, Sir Henry Beddingfield and Lord Mordaunt, Lord Huntingdon and Sir John Williams, were openly expressing their intense satisfaction.

But for him, what did it all mean? An acquittal based on a lie, and that lie told by a woman to save him!

But a lie for all that, and one which he could not refute, without telling the whole truth to his judges and branding _her_ publicly as a murderess and worse.

He, who had ever held his own honour, his pride, the cleanness of his whole existence as a fetish to be worshipped, now saw himself forced to barter all that which he held so sacred and gain his own life in exchange. How much more gladly would he have heard his death-sentence p.r.o.nounced now by his friend's kind lips. Death--however ignominious--would have purified and exalted honour.