University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
THE HAMMERING.

The terrible comedy of the king's trial had been
played at Westminster: the tragedy in front of Whitehall
was to follow it speedily.

Of those days which passed between the king's sentence
and execution I have no strength to speak. I
was near him, with other friends, and was witness to a
calmness and dignity worthy of a brave man and a
monarch. The king's nerves were unshaken: he prepared
for his end with august composure; and when
he was informed that the people in power had consented
to permit him to see his two children before his
death, a smile of joy lit up the pale and emaciated face.

This intelligence was brought to him on the night
before his execution. He was writing at the instant,
and laid down his pen to clasp his hands in deep gratitude,
raising his eyes, as he did so, to heaven.

As the messenger disappeared, he turned to the
friends around him, and said, with a smile,—

“'Tis not forbidden a poor king in captivity to
make verses, my friends: I have thus employed myself

after writing my last adieus to one from whom I am
severed,—one very dear to me.”

He took up the sheet upon which he had been writing.
As he did so, a sudden hammering began in front of
Whitehall. I shuddered; for I knew that 'twas the
workmen erecting the scaffold.

“What is that?” the king asked, turning his head,
and listening.

No one replied. The sound of hammers continued.
Suddenly the king's cheeks filled with blood.

“I understand now. God's will be done!” he murmured.
“But this shall not fright me!”

The smile came back to his face, and he said,—

“Will you hear one or two of my poor verses?”

In the midst of sobs, he then read these verses:—

As he finished reading these words, the door opened,
and Bishop Juxon appeared, his face pale, his bosom
heaving. As he approached, the old prelate's equanimity
gave way, and he began to sob violently.

The king raised his hand calmly, with a gesture of
kindness.

“Compose yourself, my lord,” he said to the bishop.

“We have no time to waste on grief: let us rather
think of the great matter. I must prepare to appear
before God, to whom in a few hours I have to render
my account. I hope to meet death with calmness, and
that you will have the goodness to render me your
assistance. Do not let us speak of the men into whose
hands I have fallen. They thirst for my blood: they
shall have it. God's will be done! I give him thanks.
I forgive them all sincerely; but let us say no more
about them.”

A harsh growl at the door was heard. The sentinels,
guarding the king night and day now, had opened the
door, and expressed by the growl their disgust at the
supposed hypocrisy of the king.

The weeping bishop motioned them away.

“Suffer us, my friends,” he said.

And, as though these mild and faltering words had
affected even the rough natures of the sentinels, they
closed the door with a crash.

The king then knelt and prayed long and devoutly.
As he rose from his knees, he turned his head quickly.
His face beamed with joy.

“What has your majesty heard?” the bishop said.

“I know not if I have heard them, but 'tis the feet
of my children!”

Footsteps approached along the corridor, and reached
the door: it was opened, and the little Princess Elizabeth,
a girl of about twelve, and the Duke of Gloucester,
still younger, ran forward into their father's arms.

The children had burst into passionate tears; but
there were no tears in the eyes of the king. A delight
beyond words shone in his pale face.

“My little ones!” he murmured, covering their
faces with kisses. “Thank God, they have permitted
you to come to me! Oh, yes, yes! now I forgive them
from my heart!”

Some moments passed in those half-inarticulate exclamations,
mingled with caresses, which are so touching,—above
all in a father embracing his children for
the last time on earth. The children sobbed and held
him closely. He never seemed weary of caressing and
kissing them.

At last he grew more composed, and his countenance
assumed an expression of solemn gravity.

“Sweet-heart,” he said, to the little princess, “do not
forget what I tell thee. I wish you not to grieve and torment
yourself for me; for it is a glorious death I shall die,
for the laws and religion of the land. I have forgiven
all my enemies, and I hope God will forgive them; and
you and your brothers and sisters must forgive them also.”

He paused, and I saw an expression of deep tenderness
come to his eyes.

“You will see your mother, sweet-heart,” he said.
“Tell her that my thoughts have never strayed from
her,—that my love for her remains the same to the last.
Love her, be obedient to her, and do not grieve for
me: I die a martyr.”

Nothing was heard in the deep silence which followed
these words but the sobs and broken words of the little
princess promising to obey these last commands of her
father.

The king raised his hand and passed it across his
eyes. He then turned to the little Duke of Gloucester,
and, placing his arm around him, drew him upon his knee.

“My child,” he said, “I wish you to heed what
your father now says to you. They will cut off my
head, and perhaps make thee a king; but you must not
be a king so long as your brothers Charles and James
live. I therefore charge you, do not be made a king
by them.”

The child's face flushed suddenly, and he looked at
the king with a flash of the eyes shining through his tears.

“I will be torn in pieces first!” he exclaimed.

The king's face glowed.

“That is spoken like my son!” he said. “You
rejoice me exceedingly!”

He bestowed a warm embrace upon the child, then,
drawing the princess towards him, clasped both to his
bosom.

As he did so, the ominous sound of the hammers in
front of Whitehall broke in. The king sobbed, nearly
unmanned, and covered the children's faces with kisses.
As he did so, the guard advanced to remove them, and
Bishop Juxon groaned.

The king raised his head. “Oh, 'tis pitiful! Do
not take them from me!” he exclaimed.

The guard drew nearer, stern and unmoved. The
hammering was heard through the open door.

The king saw that the hour had come. With heaving
bosom, he placed his hands on the heads of the
children and blessed them. They sobbed passionately
as the guard took them away; and the king rose to his
feet and turned aside to hide his tears. A window
looked upon the court. He went to it, to see the last
of them, if possible, and, leaning his face against the
frame-work, sobbed aloud.

The children were passing through the door now, in
charge of the guard, when all at once the king turned
and hastened to them in an agony of weeping. Clasping
them for the last time in his arms, he covered them
with kisses and caresses, called upon God to bless them,
and, releasing them, staggered rather than walked back
to his seat, into which he fell, concealing his face in
his hands.

The hammering from the front of Whitehall had
never ceased.