ROSAMUND. O blessed saint, O glorious Benedict,-- These arm'd men in the city, these fierce faces-- Thy holy follower founded Canterbury-- Save that dear head which now is Canterbury, Save him, he saved my life, he saved my child, Save him, his blood would darken Henry's name; Save him till all as saintly as thyself He miss the searching flame of purgatory, And pass at once perfect to Paradise. [_Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters_. Hark! Is it they? Coming! He is not here-- Not yet, thank heaven. O save him! [_Goes up steps leading to choir_. BECKET (_entering, forced along by_ JOHN OF SALISBURY _and_ GRIM). No, I tell you! I cannot bear a hand upon my person, Why do you force me thus against my will? GRIM. My lord, we force you from your enemies. BECKET. As you would force a king from being crown'd. JOHN OF SALISBURY. We must not force the crown of martyrdom. [_Service stops_. MONKS _come down from the stairs that lead to the choir_. MONKS. Here is the great Archbishop! He lives! he lives! Die with him, and be glorified together. BECKET. Together?... get you back! go on with the office. MONKS. Come, then, with us to vespers. BECKET. How can I come When you so block the entry? Back, I say! Go on with the office. Shall not Heaven be served Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the minster-bells, And the great deeps were broken up again, And hiss'd against the sun? [_Noise in the cloisters_. MONKS. The murderers, hark! Let us hide! let us hide! BECKET. What do these people fear? MONKS. Those arm'd men in the cloister. BECKET. Be not such cravens! I will go out and meet them. GRIM _and others_. Shut the doors! We will not have him slain before our face. [_They close the doors of the transept. Knocking_. Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors! [_Knocking_. BECKET. Why, these are our own monks who follow'd us! And will you bolt them out, and have _them_ slain? Undo the doors: the church is not a castle: Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf? What, have I lost authority among you? Stand by, make way! [_Opens the doors. Enter_ MONKS _from cloister_. Come in, my friends, come in! Nay, faster, faster! MONKS. Oh, my lord Archbishop, A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes-- To the choir, to the choir! [_Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the right, part by those on the left. The rush of these last bears_ BECKET _along with them some way up the steps, where he is left standing alone_. BECKET. Shall I too pass to the choir, And die upon the Patriarchal throne Of all my predecessors?