“I will do it,” cried a bellowing voice well known to Sir Thomas.
“Master Roper, come and take your wife away.” And they saw the hideous face of Cromwell pass, who surveyed those who accompanied the condemned.
In the meantime William Roper had succeeded in pushing his way through the crowd; he took the hand of More, and kissed it, weeping.
“Take her, my son,” said More, entirely occupied with Margaret. “I confide her to you, I give her to you; be her support, her friend, her defender!” And he turned to resume his march.
Margaret, observing this movement, again endeavored to rush toward him; but the crowd hurried on, the guards closed around, and she found herself separated from her father.
He cast upon her a last look, which he carried to the skies. She uttered a piercing cry; but already he had moved on and far away.
She rushed forward, endeavoring
again to break through the crowd; but curiosity had made them form like a rampart, growing every instant around her.
She heard the commands of the military authorities; already she could not see beyond the group that surrounded her; then she almost lost the use of reason. “Save my father! save him!” she cried, extending her suppliant hands toward those who environed her, whose sympathies were diversely excited according to their different characters.
“Why have they brought this young woman to this place?” said the good ones. “His daughter, his poor daughter!” murmured the more compassionate. “She looks like a lunatic!” replied the others. “She will die from this; it will kill her. It is most cruel! If the king had only granted his pardon! He might have done it.”