“Heaven grant it!” ejaculated Jane, fervently. “And now,” she added, as her toilette was ended, “I am ready to die.”
“Will you not take some refreshment, madam?” asked Angela.
“No,” replied Jane. “I have done with the body!”
The morning was damp and dark. A thaw came on a little before day-break, and a drizzling shower of rain fell. This was succeeded by a thick mist, and the whole of the fortress was for a while enveloped in vapour. It brought to Jane’s mind the day on which she was taken to trial. But a moral gloom likewise overspread the fortress. Every one within it, save her few enemies, (and they were few indeed,) lamented Jane’s approaching fate. Her youth, her innocence, her piety, touched the sternest breast, and moved the pity even of her persecutors. All felt that morning as if some dire calamity was at hand, and instead of looking forward to the execution as an exciting spectacle (for so such revolting exhibitions were then considered,) they wished it over. Many a prayer was breathed for the speedy release of the sufferer—many a sigh heaved—many a groan uttered: and if ever soul was wafted to Heaven by the fervent wishes of those on earth, Jane’s was so.
It was late before there were any signs of stir and bustle within the fortress. Even the soldiers gathered together reluctantly—and those who conversed, spoke in whispers. Dudley, who it has been stated was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, had passed the greater part of the night in devotion. But towards morning, he became restless and uneasy, and unable to compose himself, resorted to the customary employment of captives in such cases, and with a nail which he had found, carved his wife’s name in two places on the walls of his prison. These inscriptions still remain.
At nine o’clock, the bell of the chapel began to toll, and an escort of halberdiers and arquebussiers drew up before the Beauchamp Tower, while Sir Thomas Brydges and Feckenham entered the chamber of the prisoner, who received them with an unmoved countenance.
“Before you set out upon a journey from which you will never return, my lord,” said Feckenham, “I would ask you for the last time, if any change has taken place in your religious sentiments—and whether you are yet alive to the welfare of your soul?”
“Why not promise me pardon if I will recant on the scaffold, and silence me as you silenced the duke my father, by the axe!” replied Dudley, sternly. “No, sir, I will have naught to do with your false and idolatrous creed. I shall die a firm believer in the gospel, and trust to be saved by it.”
“Then perish, body and soul,” replied Feckenham, harshly. “Sir Thomas Brydges, I commit him to your hands.”
“Am I to be allowed no parting with my wife?” demanded Dudley, anxiously.