“Is Donough Macarthy, Earl of Clancarty, here?” demanded the sheriff, fixing his eyes on the earl as he stood there, with his wife clinging to him.
“I am Clancarty,” he replied proudly. Resistance would have been worse than useless, and he only pressed his dear Betty closer to his heart; he knew that separation was inevitable.
“I have a warrant to seize the body of the Earl of Clancarty and carry him to the Tower, on the charge of high treason,” said the officer, producing the parchment and reading the warrant aloud in the king’s name.
“I do not acknowledge the authority of the Prince of Orange,” said Clancarty calmly, “but I must submit to superior numbers,” he added, with a scornful glance at the six stout yeomen who had filed into the room and stood gaping at Lady Clancarty. “You have arrested me in the apartments of my wife. I came to London solely to see the Countess of Clancarty, but I will go with you without further protest.”
The officer bowed to Lady Clancarty.
“I am reluctant to part you, my lord,” he said grimly, “but we have no time to lose; my orders are explicit.”
“You might find a better office, sir,” said Lady Betty, withering him with a look, and then breaking down when her husband kissed her farewell.
“Have comfort, dear heart,” he whispered, though he knew the case was desperate; “bear up for my sake—now!”
But she clung to him in a passion of grief, begging to go with him to the Tower until it wrung his heart anew to leave her. Even the soldiers glanced away in grim silence, and she was half unconscious when Clancarty unclasped her hands from his neck and laid her in Alice’s arms.
“Care for her, Alice,” he said, in a tone of deep but restrained emotion, “guard her tenderly, do not leave her in this hour of trial—for they will tear me from her! My poor darling—my poor wife!”