“Has Sir Thomas More rendered himself guilty of the crime of high treason towards our lord the king in refusing, through a spirit of malice, treachery, and obstinacy, the oath which he demands of him as supreme head of the church on earth? Is Sir Thomas More guilty of resisting the statute of Parliament which has conferred this dignity on our lord and master, King Henry VIII.?”
The court officers struck a blow with their maces.
The judges all arose, and the court marched out majestically, while the jury retired into another room.
“Now we shall see if Rich is sure of his jury,” said Cromwell to himself, following them with his eyes; and not looking before him, he trod
on the train of the chancellor’s robe, who turned round, impatiently saying that he had offended his dignity. Cromwell began to laugh; for he cared little for the dignity of this chancellor of recent date and mediocre worth—and he continued to look behind him.
“Well! this will soon be ended,” said Sir Thomas; and he asked the yeomen who guarded him permission to approach one of the windows looking out on the courtyard.
More humane than the tigers who had just gone out, these rude men granted his request.
Sir Thomas looked out, but a broad, sculptured cornice extending around the gallery prevented him from seeing if his daughter was still below, and his eyes rested only on the magnificent view to be enjoyed from the apartments of Lambeth Palace. The sun was reflected upon the surface of the river, and he could see even the smallest boat that glided on the water.
“Is she still there?” thought Sir Thomas, as he leaned his head against the window. “Well, it is all over.” He stepped back, and gazed out into the distance. “This whole city,” he said, “comes, goes, stirs, agitates itself. What matters it to them that a man is condemned in a corner? Had they need of my services, they would run—‘Sir Thomas! there is Sir Thomas!’ They would follow; they would call me. Now the crowd forgets us in two days! An immense abyss, an entire chaos, almost a generation, separates the evening from the morrow! My friends are afraid—those, at least, who remain to me. They grieve in secret. The tears will be wiped from their eyes in obscurity; but my daughter, who will dry hers? She will pass away
like myself, alone in this world; she will have need to pass quickly, and without looking around her.”