"He is willing to die," urged the Queen; "he is pleased to give his life for you——"
"Willing to die? Where is there a man willing to die? There is none to be found, however old, wretched, or mean. Deceive not thyself, Strafford is young, strong, full of joy and life—he hath a wife and children and others dear to him—is it like that he is willing to die?"
The Queen's eyes did not sink before the miserable reproach in her husband's gaze.
"Willing or no, he must die," she said firmly. "He must go. Stand not in the way of his fate."
"He shall not die through me," said Charles, with a bitter doggedness. "Am I never to sleep sound again for thinking of how I abandoned this man? He came to London, Mary, on our promise of protection."
"We have done what we could," returned Henriette Marie, unmoved, "and now we can do no more."
"I will not," said the King, as if repeating the words gave him strength. "I will not. Do they want everything I love—first Buckingham—now Strafford——"
"Then me," flashed the Queen. "Think of that, if you think of your wife at all."
This reproach was so undeserved as to be grotesque. In all the King's concerns, from the most important to the most foolish, she had always come foremost, and this was the first occasion on which he had not absolutely thrown himself on her judgment and bowed to her desires.