Few hours had been tolled on the great clock of Saint Paul's, or had rung across the water from the Tower guns, ere England knew what was the vengeance to be taken. Once more royal blood was shed upon Tower Hill; once more England stooped to commit murder at the dictation of a foreign power. The white dove was sacrificed. About ten o'clock on the morning of the 12th of February, Lord Guilford Dudley was beheaded on Tower Hill. It is plain that he died a Protestant, seeing that no priest was present at his death. And like the fiends they were, his executioners brought him, both going to the scaffold, and his dead body in returning, past the windows of Partridge's house, where his poor young wife had her lodging. They let her--that tender bird of seventeen short summers--from her chamber lattice see all the horror she could see, and feel all the agony she could feel; and then they brought her forth, to die also. Calmly and quietly, as though she had been going to her forfeited throne, she came forth to her death. And she was going to her throne. For she was one of Christ's martyrs, and sat upon His throne with Him. She spoke very little on the scaffold; only saying that "though she had consented unto the setting up of herself against the Queen's Highness, yet was she innocent of all procurement or desire thereof: and that she died a true Christian woman, looking for eternal life unto the passion of Jesus Christ only, and to none other; and she thanked God, that had given her space to repent; for when she was younger, and did know the word of God, she had neglected the same, and had loved her own self and the world." And then she said to Dr Feckenham, "Shall I say this Psalm?" Feckenham--a man of the Jesuitical type, renowned for the softness and sweetness of his manners--bowed assent. Then the victim prayed through the Fifty-first Psalm, and prepared herself for the sacrifice. The hangman knelt down and asked her forgiveness: she replied, "Most willingly," and "I pray you, despatch me quickly. Will you take it off before I lay me down?" Poor child! The executioner was the one who dealt with her most gently and respectfully. He said, "No, Madam." So she handed her gloves to one of her women, and her book to Sir John Bridges, and tied the handkerchief over her eyes. Feeling about with her hands for the block, she said,--"What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it?" One of the bystanders guided her hand to it. Then she laid down her head; and saying, "Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" her head fell with one stroke. She was out of Philip's way now. And the angels of God, for whose company she exchanged a society somewhat less angelic, were not so likely to account her in their way.