But Richard could not feel at ease while his nephews lived. So one day Sir James Tyrrel, Master of Horse, "a trusty knight," brought an order under the royal seal that Brackenbury, the Lieutenant of the Tower, should for one night give up the keys and absent himself from his office. Brackenbury had already refused to make away with the Princes. The tale runs that Tyrrel was much agitated in mind while riding out with two men--professional murderers--by name John Dighton and Miles Forrest. They, thought their master, are not weak like Brackenbury, and will not mind getting these brats out of the way any more than wringing the necks of a couple of house sparrows; they will never blench or quiver even at sight of the blood of the Lord's anointed. The keeper of the keys feared and hated the King, but dared not disobey him. He gave up his place and trust for the time ordered. After the long twilight, when the night fell, they crept around the winding stairs and through black corridors lighted only by the lanterns they carried. When the death-men entered the chamber they paused awhile before the living picture there, the fairest under the wide curtains of darkness. Youth seems younger and loveliness lovelier in the helpless hours of sleep. The Princes lay in the sweet slumber of healthful childhood, sinless and confiding, nestled close in each other's arms. To kill them was like sending spirits ready for heaven home too soon. Some pretty belongings, toys and playthings given by their mother, were scattered about, and a book of prayers, open on a table at the bed's head, almost changed the mind of the guilty wretches. But they did not linger; the sleepers made swift passage to the dreamless sleep which has no waking, smothered with the pillows of their own bed. If there was moan or outcry the Tower walls are thick, and in the midnight hush only the listening angels on airy wings might hear. Singers have sung the woful story, and artists have painted the piteous scene. The great poet's touch brings it before our eyes. The hardened villains melted into tenderness and mild compassion when they reported to their master: "'O thus,' quoth Dighton, 'lay the gentle babes.' 'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another Within their alabaster, innocent arms: Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other.'"