"Where is it so written?" demanded Cromwell, scornfully.
"In the book of fate."
"You do not read the book aright, my lord duke. Were I to turn over its leaves, I should soon light on one in which his death on the scaffold is recorded."
"You will find no such record," rejoined the duke. "You have slain the king, his father, but him you shall not slay. His destiny is not in your hands."
"All things are in the Lord's hands," said Cromwell. "But would Heaven have vouchsafed me this crowning mercy if it had not meant——"
"That you should be king!" interrupted the duke. "Not so. Be not deceived. King you shall never be. Hitherto, the third of September has been propitious to you, but another anniversary of that day shall come, and it will prove fatal."
Exhausted by the effort he had made in uttering these words, he sank backwards, and his countenance assumed the pallor of death.
Thinking he was gone, Cromwell called to the surgeons, who had retired to discuss the duke's case.
"While you are conferring together, your patient has expired," he cried.
"'Tis but a momentary faintness, your excellency," said Trappam. "But assuredly his grace will not live long, if he refuses to undergo the operation."