All this was shrieked forth with gestures so rapid and amazing that the eye could scarce follow the motion of her hands. Now she flew to the window and fumbled with its fastening, too greatly excited to succeed with the opening. Several of the French gallants stumbled over each other in their haste to aid her, but the lady’s impatience could not wait for them. She lifted her clenched hand and smote the diamond panes, which went shivering down beneath the fierce impact of the blow. Glass or lead or both cut the imperious hand and wrist, and the blood trickled down the fair rounded arm. The breach she made was like the letting in of waters; the roar outside became instantly articulate, and waves of meaning flooded the great apartment. “To the block with Strafford. Death to the people’s oppressor!” was the cry, and the tortured King shrank from it as from the lash of a whip. “Harken to the wolves!” shrieked the Queen. “It is your blood or Strafford’s! Which, which, which?” Then, perhaps because of the hurt which she scarcely seemed to feel, her mood changed as quickly as her anger had risen, and she melted into tears, glided to her husband, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh Charles, Charles,” she moaned, “it is my love for you that would coerce you. You have not been to blame, misled by an obstinate Minister who would sacrifice an indulgent master to buy his own safety. A King is not to be bound as other men. The claim of your wife and children rise superior to that of any subject, for you have sworn to protect them.” Charles stood by the wall which was eight years later to be broken for his own final exit, his eyes filled with tears, caressing the woman who clung to his breast. He saw that the girl was about to address him again and said hastily,--“Go, go! You but pile distraction on distraction. Fear not; for the word of a King goes with you.” “No, no!” sobbed the Queen. “For my sake withdraw it.” Two of the bishops now stepped forward, and with gentle urgency used their persuasion on the girl to withdraw. “God keep your Majesty firm,” she cried, “and so deal with you as you deal with my father.” But the last sight she was to have of her ruler, as the good men pushed her to the door, was far from inspiring. His cheeks were womanishly wet, and wavering irresolution was stamped upon his brow. The twining wounded arms of his wife had reddened the white scarf at his throat with the royal, passionate blood of France. CHAPTER VIII.--EXECUTION.