Howard. On such occasions, you are all yourself. Your character breaks forth in all its majesty of force—your resolution was electric. As eagle to her eyrie, you flew to Windsor, that seat of regal pomp and power. You called no councils; lost no time discussing plans—You took the helm yourself, and instinct pointed to the port of safety. To seize the prize, the very object of rebellion, was to cut it short at a stroke! (He walks aside). It was a masterly resolve to send Hunsdon without notice or delay to carry the Queen of Scots to Tutbury, and there to surround himself and his quarry with five hundred men. The she-devil stormed, and wept, and threatened; but Hunsdon was just the man to go through with his work. She understood it all—the game was up with her. How I should have laughed to see Shrewsbury’s stupid stare, when your order was presented to him. Well, it was a marvellous conception, and marvellously executed, but the instinct was not human; it was the dictate of that guardian angel, which I maintain attends you through every difficulty.
Queen. Noble kinsman, it is strange, now that I reflect, I did it all without a moment’s thought, without reason, fear or motive. In fact, I knew not why, but that I was constrained, and it was done.
Howard (hurriedly). Then without an hour’s delay, to order the greatest men in England, Pembroke, Arundel, Lumley, and Throgmorton—to appear at court, and there to put them under arrest.
Queen. They were men and patriots—friends at heart—and instantly obeyed. They knew their heads were safe enough at Windsor.
Howard. Insurrection, without leader or object was snuffed out. But these are not the men to put their country under a foreign yoke, whether of Pope or Spain.
Queen. Norfolk, too, I summoned to return. His courage failed him, his shaking fit came on and laid him up at Howard House to write his lying sneaking letter, (she shows him a latter.) See! This from a Howard, and great Surrey’s sun.
Howard. I am ashamed of him. That ague should have taken his life, and saved his head.
Queen. Yet I loved him, uncle. How hard to sign his execution! I would have mourned his death. How much his fall from loyalty and honour. Howards should fall on fields of fame—Champions of England’s freedom and independence—a wailing country follow to their tomb, and public monuments attest their virtue. Norfolk! minion to her foe! traitor to enslave her! sinks to his doom, disgracing his proud name. His friends must loathe him—rebel, felon, slave and coward.
Howard. He dies the worst of traitors—his treason against his country, his religion—against mankind. Perish rebellion with him! England now is safe, and marches on apace, to greatness of her own—the empire of the ocean.—Wherefore doubt your fortune?
Queen (sadly). Kinsman, my lot is cast in loneliness, a solitary rock amid the breakers; danger, doubt and treason ever round me, knowing not whom to trust. My very council, blind to their country’s welfare, squabble about foreign policy, and even if honest are divided. Some are for marrying me, in the interest of Spain, some in that of France. Or that I’m lost—Even Cecil.