University of Virginia Library

Scene V.

Oxford. A Gallery.
Queen, alone.
QUEEN.
Why comes not Gardiner?—this is horrible.
He tempted me, he terrified, he goaded;—
The homicide I fiated is doing—
And like the victim I stand shivering here,
In the mind's ague. Hark! was not that a cry?
What do I watch?—Inexorable minutes,
How swift ye speed!—too late—too late to save!
O mad precipitation of my will!
Even while I speak, the future grows the past!
[Shouting heard.
The shout of thousands, from the scene of death
Murmuring hoarsely—what is doing now?

Enter Gardiner [staggering feebly].
You come at last—I have waited long—speak—speak!
Hush—that dread sound again! My temples burn
Hot as the martyr's pile. 'Tis doing—Bishop!
The deed you longed for—why not look on it
With your red, hungry eyes? The man you hate
Even now consumes in his great agony.
O Cranmer! See him, as I see him now—
His arms flung forth, thus—thus: the tongues of flame
Eating into him like Megæra's vipers!
The agony of hell is in that cry!
It hath gone up before the Son of God
Appealing; ay—and we must answer it.
Well may you tremble, prelate! Ho! some light!
A preternatural shadow falls upon us.
I shall grow mad—why speak you not, pale wretch?

GARDINER.
Pardon! My voice sticks in my throat. In truth
I am very feeble—sick almost to death.

QUEEN.
Light! light! what means this darkness? Hark! the voice
Of God in thunder! who hath seen before
A cloud like that o'ercast the evening sky?
Black as a pall—it grows—it hovers o'er us—
A demon's wing, dun with the soot of hell!
Come hither—nay, you shall come—mark yon glare!
It is not lightning—it abides: not lightning,
It grows—look on it—priest of peace! look on it!
Know you what that betides? I charge you, speak.

GARDINER.
I can endure no more!

[He rushes out.
Enter Fakenham.
QUEEN.
Welcome, good Fakenham!
Speak, I conjure you! let me hear some voice!

FAKENHAM.
What can I say?—Thought sickens—

QUEEN.
While you pause
Fancy is busy—anything but silence!
I am nerved to hear the worst.

FAKENHAM.
What shall I say?
His death—that white-haired man—had graced a martyr?

QUEEN.
What did he do—what say?

FAKENHAM.
He never shrank
From torment—nay, ere the flame reached his body,
He stretched his hand forth to it, and there held it—
A black and shrivel'd shape—pah! I am sick!—
Saying, “Weak member! thou hast wrought my sin;
Perish thou first!”

QUEEN.
I think my senses fail:
What more—what more?

FAKENHAM.
He never breathed a groan;
But bowed his head amid the flames and died.

QUEEN.
A martyr! ha! ha! martyr—said you not?

FAKENHAM.
His death became the saints of better days.

Enter Margaret Douglas.
MARGARET.
O my sweet mistress!

QUEEN.
What new stroke of horror
Falls on us now?

MARGARET.
Scarce had my lord of Winton
Reached his own house, where friends had come to feast,
Sudden, as though by lightning, he fell dead.

QUEEN.
Support me, I am giddy!

FAKENHAM.
Hold her up—
Dead! Gardiner dead! He hath been sick of late.
Yet it is strange. Watch our sad mistress well.
[Exeunt Queen and Margaret.
Ay—strange—both die: both—victim, and oppressor—
At the same moment die: and die unshriven.
Be masses sung!—let prayer unceasingly
Rise to the throne of God!—Mediate, good Saints!
Two grievous sinners sleep: may both awake
To mercy! Which needs most?—I am sore disturbed.

[Exit.