“Why is Lord Strafford in a dungeon to-day? Because, trusting your word, he obeyed your command at Hampton. Why was he put on trial? Because, faithfully, he carried out his King’s behests. Why was he condemned to death? Because he stood true to the King. If he deserve death, then so do you, for you are the master and he the servant. Has God stricken you and your counsellors with blindness, that you cannot see in the destruction of Strafford the throwing away of the shield which guards your breast, leaving you naked to your enemies? Surrender bastion, and the castle falls.” “God of Heaven!” cried the quivering Queen. “What country of the mad is this, where the meanest of subjects may so address a monarch! Strip the mantle from her back and scourge her rebellious flesh to the kennel whence she comes.” “No, no!” gasped Charles, staggering to his feet and sweeping with a gesture of his hand the documents which lay before him on the table, so that they fluttered to the floor. “Christ have mercy upon me! She speaks the truth; happy is the Prince who hears it and heeds it. I have passed my word to Strafford, and it shall be kept. I will not sign,--no, though the heavens fall. Rise, my girl! You have my promise,--the promise of a Stuart,--and it shall be fulfilled.” Charles graciously assisted the girl to her feet with the same courtesy he would have shown to the first lady of the Court. The rage of the Queen now passed all bounds of restraint. “And this before me, your wife! You weigh the word of this bedraggled creature of the streets above that of the royal House of France, and Queen of this turbulent realm! By God, you deserve to be hooted by your loathsome mob. Who is this strumpet?” De Courcy whispered a word into her ear. “What! The bastard of that profligate Strafford! Jesu, to what a pass this Christian Court has come!” “Madam,” said Frances with frigid dignity, “you misname me. I have the honour to be Lord Strafford’s lawful daughter, acknowledged by him as such in presence of his Majesty the King.” “’T is true, ’t is true,” murmured Charles, visibly quailing before the increasing wrath of his wife, adding in piteous appeal, “God’s wounds, have I not enough to bear without the quarreling of women.” “The quarreling of women! Dare you couple me in the same breath with such as she? Is there none in my train to whip forth this impudent wench into the wretched rabble that has spewed her into our presence. The quarreling of women! A slattern that wishes to divert, from her reputed father’s head to yours, the anger of the gutter. Listen to it, my lord, listen to it.”