(Throws him headlong.)
De Morville. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man.
Fitz Urse. (Advances with drawn sword.) I told thee that I should remember thee!
Becket. Profligate pander!
Fitz Urse. Do you hear that? Strike, strike.
(Strikes the Archbishop and wounds him in the forehead.)
Becket. (Covers his eyes with his hand.) I do commend my cause to God.
Fitz Urse.. Strike him, Tracy!
Rosamund. (Rushing down the steps from the choir.) No, no, no, no. Mercy, Mercy,
As you would hope for mercy.