_Abb._ [_Coming down_] Off with your hands, in warrior Michael's name! Touch not De Burgh! And you--lord barons--you Who blow the gentle fires of this new peace With wind of your hot tempers--free the king, And wait as fathers on his tender years! _Alb._ I said, my lords, we should have prating here. _Abb._ The midnight vision and long hours of prayer Give us strange powers, and we see thoughts burn In your intent would strike their fire against The stars of war and light disaster o'er A shuddering world. But you---- _Alb._ Back to your beads! _Abb._ We'll count our heads in your fast dropping blood! Wouldst try our swords and see if they be keen? And if you scorn mine in a woman's hand, Here is the hand shall bear it to your woe. [_Takes sword from under her cloak and gives it to Kent. All the nuns rise, drop their cloaks and show themselves to be armed men. The abbess throws off her hood and stands revealed as Margaret_] _Hen._ My guards! _Kent._ My soldiers! _Mar._ Kent will not to Tower While Margaret of Scotland is his wife. _Cant._ Princess, the day is yours, and I, for one, Thank Heaven 'tis so. _Win._ And I. _Mar._ Contentious lords, Forget one hour that ye are baron-peers, And churchmen clambering to the pinnacle Topped with a cardinal's cap. Think ye are men Of England, whose dear duty is to her, And swear ye brothers as ye are her sons. Down on your knees! Ask pardon of your king! _Win._ [_Kneeling_] O, sovereign liege, in all I said and did My conscience led me and my God did counsel. If 'tis a sin to seek the punishment Of one whom we believe has wronged your blood, Then have we sinned indeed. _Hen._ Wilt swear to drop This charge 'gainst noble Kent, whose honest soul Will cloak such guilt when north winds blow their frost From bosom of the sun? _Win._ I swear, my lord, That your own lips shall be the first to make Renewal of this charge. _Hen._ Rise, Winchester. You are forgiven, but not yet may take Your old place in our heart. [_Albemarle and Pembroke kneel_] _Alb._ Were thoughts of men Writ on the heart's red walls, this sword, my liege, Should open mine that you might read me clear Of all intent save truest care for thee. _Pem._ And I, my king, sought but the good of England In all too harshly crying for the rights Of your long loyal barons. _Hen._ Rise, my lords. We hold you not attainted, but awhile Must look with careful coldness on your love, Till by your lives we test this swift repentance.