12. XII.
SO WENT THE KING WHITE TO HIS GRAVE.
I left the scene of the king's execution, staggering
in my gait like a drunken man, and for hours thereafter
wandered about London, the prey to a species of
nightmare which chilled and fevered me by turns. All
objects which my dull eyes rested upon seemed unreal,
like the shapes seen in dreams. I scarce knew where
I was; could see nothing but that one fearful group on
the terrible platform in front of Whitehall.
Night fell, and still I went to and fro like one
who has lost his way. Then, I know not how, I found
myself again in the neighborhood of Whitehall. The
streets were deserted; the great crowd had vanished:
save the light in a window on the ground-floor of the
palace, I saw no evidence that London was not a city
of the dead.
Towards the light a strange attraction drew me.
Without any definite design, I went to the great door
of the palace: it was open. The hall was deserted. I
entered, approached the door of the apartment from
which the light shone, and, reaching the threshold, saw
before me a singular spectacle.
In a coffin, covered with black velvet, lay the body
of Charles I., the head replaced in its natural position,
the lips wearing a sweet smile.
Beside it stood three persons, and in shadow at one
corner of the room were a number of stern-faced halberd-bearers,
erect and motionless as statues.
The three persons were Colonel Axtel, dark, sombre,
and sullen; Sir Purbeck Temple, a friend of the king,
whom I knew well and at once recognized; the third
personage was the now terrible General Cromwell.
General Cromwell was standing beside the coffin,
with his back turned to me; and I could not see his
face. His left hand was placed beneath his right elbow;
the other hand supported his chin. As I reached the
threshold, Sir Purbeck Temple had drawn near to the
coffin, and was looking at the king's face with half-suppressed
sobs.
“My poor master!” he exclaimed; “and this is
all that is left of thee!”
“Did you expect to find him alive,” growled Axtel,
“after the blow of the axe?”
Sir Purbeck was silent for an instant. Then he
faltered,—
“I know not what I expected, sir. But I have read
that a species of divinity and holiness hedges a
king!—”
He could say no more. Axtel growled: the word
best describes the sound he uttered. He extended his
hand towards the body; a smile of contempt curled
his sullen lips, and he said, with a heavy frown,—
“If thou thinkest there is any holiness in kingship,
look there!”
Sir Purbeck Temple made no reply. I could see the
tears on his cheeks.
General Cromwell had meanwhile remained silent
and motionless, gazing at the body, as he afterwards
gazed at the king's portrait,—hiding his secret thoughts.
Suddenly he moved and drew near the coffin. For
an instant he paused again. Then, reaching out his
hand, he raised the head of the corpse, looked at it,
and at the body, and said, in his deep voice,—
“This was a well-constituted frame, and promised
long life!”
As he uttered these words he replaced the head in
the coffin, turned away, passed by me slowly, without
appearing to be aware of my presence, and went out
of the door of the palace.
In my turn I approached the coffin, and gazed long
at the king. His lips were smiling: he had died,
plainly, forgiving all his enemies. I bent down and
pressed a last kiss on the thin hand. A growl from
Axtel, and a harsh order to leave the apartment, followed.
I left the room and the palace, and was again
in the streets,—seeing nothing, as I went on, but the
cold face and the smile of the king.
Let me finish the gloomy record.
The body of Charles I. was conveyed to St. James's
Palace, where it was embalmed. It was then taken to
Windsor Castle, Cromwell having refused sepulture for
the king in Westminster Abbey; and at Windsor it was
committed to the earth. The pall-bearers were the
Duke of Richmond, the Earl of Hertford, and the
Lords Lindsay and Southampton. As the coffin covered
with black velvet was borne from the hall,—the
only inscription upon it, “Carolus Rex, 1648,” cut
with a penknife,—the snow began to fall slowly and
tranquilly, as though it mourned the dead man.
By the time it reached the chapel, the pall of black
velvet was entirely white.
“So went our king white to his grave!” said his
weeping pall-bearers.
Not even the burial-service of the Church had been
permitted to be read over the king's grave.
