“Farewell, good friend,” resumed Le Despenser, with a parting grasp of his squire’s hand. “Be sure to tell Madam my mother that I died true to God and the King—and say unto my Lady that my last thought was of her.”
Then he knelt down to commune with God. But he asked for no priest; and when they saw it, the cries of the mob became fiercer than ever.
“Traitor!” and “Heretic!” were roared from every part of the vast square.
Le Despenser rose, and faced his enemies.
“I am no traitor to my true King, and no heretic to the living God!” he cried earnestly. “I was ever a true man to God, and to the King, and to my Lady: touching which ye are not my judge, but God.”
His voice was drowned by another roar of execration. Then he knelt again—and the handkerchief fell. But just as the executioner raised his arm—
“Just ere the falling axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart—”
One word trembled on the dying lips—“Custance!”
In another minute, lifting the severed head by its dark auburn hair, the executioner shouted to the sovereign mob—“This is the head of a traitor!”
“Thou liest!” broke in a low fierce whisper from Bertram Lyngern.