“You are a King’s son,” repeated Lord Grey.
In a desperate passion his Grace answered him.
“Why did you induce me to this folly? It was you, that villain Ferguson and Argyll—”
“He has paid,” said the other quickly.
“As I must pay.… My God, was I not happy in Brabant? You but wanted my name to gild your desperation—”
“We would have made you King,” said Lord Grey, and he smiled a little.
There fell a silence, and it seemed that the Duke would speak, but he said no words.
“Come, gentlemen,” spoke out my lord Grey. “The Council is over–you will have your orders before morning–all expedients are ineffectual; now each, in his own way, must go forward to the end.” He took up the candle to light them from the room, and they, being men of a little station, were overawed by his quality and went; two of them deserted that night, and one betrayed us by firing a pistol to warn Lord Feversham of our approach and so got the King’s pardon. God be merciful to the others; I think they died unknown and brave.
I, being trusted because there was a price on my head and I had borne the torture in Scotland, was asked by Lord Grey to stay and help hearten his Grace.
We endeavoured to reason him into going into Castle Field, where Ferguson preached to the miners and ploughmen; he would not, but in a weak agony abused Wildman and Argyll as the engines of his torture, and he had the look on him we call “fey”; I believed he was near his death.…