O, he was wrong! But when that axe fell, not one shout was raised. That mighty throng around that crimson block Stood silent--like the hushed black cloud that holds The thunder. You might hear the headsman's breath. Stillness like that is dangerous, being charged, Sometimes, with thought, Sir Lewis! England sleeps! What if, one day, the Stewart should be called To know that England wakes? What if a shout Should thunder-strike Whitehall, and the dogs lift Their heads along the fringes of the crowd To catch a certain savour that I know, The smell of blood and sawdust?-- Ah, Sir Lewis, 'Tis hard to find one little seed of right Among so many wrongs. Raleigh was wrong, And yet--it was because he loved his country Next to himself, Sir Lewis, by your leave, His country butchered him. You did not know That I was only third in his affections? The night I told him--we were parting then-- I had begged the last disposal of his body, Did he not say, with O, so gentle a smile, "_Thou hadst not always the disposal of it In life, dear Bess. 'Tis well it should be thine In death!_"' 'The jest was bitter at such an hour, And somewhat coarse in grain,' Stukeley replied. 'Indeed I thought him kinder.' 'Kinder,' she said, Laughing bitterly. Stukeley looked at her. She whispered something, and his lewd old eyes Fastened upon her own. He knelt by her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'your woman's wit has found A better way to solve this bitter business.' Her head moved on the pillow with little tossings. He touched her hand. It leapt quickly away. She hugged that strange white bundle to her breast, And writhed back, smiling at him, across the bed. 'Ah, Bess,' he whispered huskily, pressing his lips To that warm hollow where her head had lain, 'There is one way to close the long dispute, Keep the estates unbroken in your hands And stop all slanderous tongues, one happy way. We have some years to live; and why alone?' 'Alone?' she sighed. 'My husband thought of that. He wrote a letter to me long ago, When he was first condemned. He said--he said-- Now let me think--what was it that he said?-- I had it all by heart. "_Beseech you, Bess, Hide not yourself for many days_", he said.' 'True wisdom that,' quoth Stukeley, 'for the love That seeks to chain the living to the dead Is but self-love at best!' 'And yet,' she said, 'How his poor heart was torn between two cares, Love of himself and care for me, as thus: