They instantly placed for him one of the settles; and after gazing around for a moment with that sort of painful vacancy of eye that speaks how the brain reels, he made an effort, and went on, though less coherently. "All he has said is false. I am on the brink of another world, and I say it is false as the hell to which he is gone. Osborne Darnley, the good, the noble, and the true--the son of my best and oldest friend--knew of no plot, heard of no treason. He was in England but two days when he fell into that traitor's hands. He never saw Buckingham but once. The Osborne Maurice named in the duke's letter is not he; one far less worthy."
"Who then is he?" cried the king impatiently. "Give me to know him, if you would have me believe. Never did I hear of such a name but in years long past, an abettor of Perkyn Warbeck. Who then is this Sir Osborne Maurice--ha? Mother of God! name him!"
"I--I--I--King of England!" cried the old man. "I, who, had he been guided by me, would have taught Richard King of England, whom you style Perkyn Warbeck, to wrench the sceptre from the hand of your usurping father; I, whose child was murdered by that dead traitor, in cold blood, after the rout at Taunton; I--I it was who predicted to Edward Bohun that his head should be highest in the realm of England: I it is who predict it still!" As he spoke the last words, the old man suddenly drew forth the blade of the dagger from his breast, upon which a full stream of blood instantly gushed forth and deluged the ground. Still struggling with the departing spirit, he started on his feet--put his hand to his brow. "I come! I come!" cried he--reeled--shuddered--and fell dead beside his enemy.
CHAPTER XLI.
They all, as glad as birds of joyous prime,
Thence led her forth, about her dancing round.--Spenser.
The bustle, the confusion, the clamour, the questions, and the explanations that ensued, we shall leave the reader to imagine, satisfied that his vivid fancy will do far more justice to such a scene than our worn-out pen. When the bodies of Sir Payan Wileton and his companion in death had been removed from the chamber of the king, and some sand strewed upon the ground to cover the gory memories that such deeds had left behind, order and tranquillity began to regain their dominion.
"By my faith! a bloody morning's entertainment have we had," said Francis. "But you are happy, my good brother of England, in having traitors that will thus despatch each other, and cheat the headsman of his due. However, from what I have gathered, Osborne Darnley, the Knight of Burgundy, can no longer seem a traitor in the eyes of any one."
"No, truly, my gracious lord," replied Wolsey, willing to pleasure the King of France. "He stands freed from all spot or blemish, and well deserves the kingly love of either noble monarch."
"'Slife! my good lord cardinal," cried Henry, "speak for yourself alone! Now, I say, on my soul, he is still a most deep and egregious traitor; not only, like that Sir Payan Wileton, in having planned his treason, but in having executed it."
"Nay, how so?" cried Francis, startled at this new charge. "In what is he a traitor now?"