“Yes,” answers Guy, “I am a Catholic, but I am also an Englishman.”
“There’ll soon be one less of them to fight against the flag of Spain,” sneers the Viceroy.
To this is joined a low wail of despair from Alva’s daughter.
The executioner, one of whom my lord always carries with him for sudden use, comes in, in leather jerkin, and with awful cruel face, and he of Alva says to him: “How now, fellow, where is thy noose?”
“I thought, my lord,” answers the man, “from what I heard outside, it was a burning at the stake and wanted to know where it should be done? There’s faggots enough in the kitchen for roasting of my man. Shall I burn him in the great courtyard in front of the house? Shall I burn him quick or burn him slow? I can find tallow fat enough to lard him!”
Here my lord of Alva sees something in his daughter’s face, though she says no word to this, but simply strides up to her father and looks him in the eye; and he, turning his head away, mutters: “The noose; he is not a heretic, hang him up from a beam outside.”
“You are resolved on—on this?” Hermoine’s soft voice is broken now and harsh.
“Yes! It is an affair of State.”
“My tears, my prayers, my breaking heart—” she sighs this out with gasping sighs, “make no—change—in—your decree?” And there is a sweat of agony about the girl’s beautiful eyes instead of tears.
“No. It is an affair of State.” Alva’s lips tremble as he says it.