He wondered what Strafford had looked like just before his death, and it came to him that he was enduring what Strafford had endured—minute by minute the same—he was also the same age as Strafford had been, to the very year.
He sat down in the great arm-chair by the bed and tried to think; what a failure his life had been, what a collapse of all hopes and ambitions—how incomplete; he was very, very weary of the long struggle which he had maintained so unyieldingly, and not sorry to have it ended.
Yet it was an awful thing to die this way—and so suddenly.
Only a month ago he had been at Windsor, firmly believing that his enemies would destroy each other, firmly believing that he would once more come to Whitehall, a king, and hang all these rebels and traitors.
And now it was all over, all the hopes and fears, suspenses and agitations, all the struggles and defeats and intrigues; there were only a few hours of time left, and only one thing more to do—to die decently.
He put on his shoes with the big crimson roses, his light sword, his George with the collar of knots and roses, his black velvet cloak; then as the dawn began to blur the candlelight, Bishop Juxon, whose attendance had been permitted him, came to him. It was this Bishop who had urged him not to assent to Strafford's death—how well both men remembered that now—across all the tumultuous events which lay between—how well!
Charles rose.
"I thank you for your loyalty, my lord," he said; and then he was silent, for he thought that his voice sounded unnatural.
"May Your Majesty wake to-morrow so glorified that you will forget to-day!" replied the Bishop.
"To-morrow!" repeated Charles absently. "Ay, to-morrow—you will get up to-morrow and move and eat—ay, to-morrow——"