He died at the Market Cross after a fortnight’s preparation, as he had not lived, a gentleman at last. For, by some late access of grace which is hard to understand, she accorded him the axe instead of the rope. He sent many times for his friend the Italian, and at his latest hour, when he knew he would not come, asked the headsman to present him with his rosary. The headsman would not touch the accursed idol.
‘If you touch me, you touch a thing far more accursed,’ said the condemned man, ‘to whom a death resembling that of his Saviour’s companions in torment would be infinite honour.’ He made his preparations, and said his prayers. There were people at every window.
It had happened that my Lord of Darnley, with a fine train of horsemen, having sent in his humble suit to the Queen and received an answer, witnessed the ceremony: or so they say. He divided attention with the departing guest. All observed him, that he sat his horse well—easily, with a light hand ever ready at the rein to get back the fretful head. He watched every detail of the execution, looking on as at a match of football among sweating apprentices, with half-shut, sulky eyes. He spoke a few words to his attendants.
‘Who is our man?’
‘They say a Frenchman, my lord. Chatler by name.’
‘To whom is he speaking, then? Watch his hand at his heart. Now ’tis at his lips! He makes a bow,—will they never finish with him? How are we to break through! They should truss him.’
A young man behind him laughed; but my lord continued: ‘But—now look, look! Will he never have done? There are women at all the windows. See that French hood up there.’
‘’Tis a woman’s business, my lord. They say that this fellow——’ The young man whispered in his ear.
My lord made no sign, except to say, ‘My cousin is hard upon a forward lover.’
‘Nay, sir. Say, rather, on a lover too backward.’