“A Catholic,” laughs Alva harshly, “as good as I? And raise thy hand against the King of Spain!” “Yes,” answers Guy, “I am a Catholic, but I am also an Englishman.” “There’ll soon be one less of them to fight against the flag of Spain,” sneers the Viceroy. To this is joined a low wail of despair from Alva’s daughter. The executioner, one of whom my lord always carries with him for sudden use, comes in, in leather jerkin, and with awful cruel face, and he of Alva says to him: “How now, fellow, where is thy noose?” “I thought, my lord,” answers the man, “from what I heard outside, it was a burning at the stake and wanted to know where it should be done? There’s faggots enough in the kitchen for roasting of my man. Shall I burn him in the great courtyard in front of the house? Shall I burn him quick or burn him slow? I can find tallow fat enough to lard him!” Here my lord of Alva sees something in his daughter’s face, though she says no word to this, but simply strides up to her father and looks him in the eye; and he, turning his head away, mutters: “The noose; he is not a heretic, hang him up from a beam outside.” “You are resolved on—on this?” Hermoine’s soft voice is broken now and harsh. “Yes! It is an affair of State.” “My tears, my prayers, my breaking heart—” she sighs this out with gasping sighs, “make no—change—in—your decree?” And there is a sweat of agony about the girl’s beautiful eyes instead of tears. “No. It is an affair of State.” Alva’s lips tremble as he says it. “Then I claim for this man I love, since he is not a heretic, the privilege of receiving the last rites of the church. You shall not damn his soul though you condemn his body. You are too good a Catholic to say a Catholic shall die without grace and church rites.” To this Don Fernando answers shortly: “There’s no priest within reach.” “You bring the executioner, but not the priest!” she jeers. “Give him and me at least time to tell our beads—for when he dies—my heart breaks also.” But here there is a bustle at the rear among the arquebusiers guarding the doors, and a man garbed as in the priesthood of the Catholic Church, says: “Room, a father of the church!” And the soldiers permitting him to pass, Guy sees with amazement it is the Father Anastasius he had hoped this night would celebrate his wedding. “Now,” cries Hermoine, “my Lord of Alva, you cannot refuse.” “He shall not,” says the priest, “not to me, Father Anastasius, who have lived in Zeeland persecuted all these years for love of the Lord; he dare not refuse permission to save this man’s soul.” “And why not?” answers Alva haughtily. “Because I will anathematize you. Great Catholic that you are, you have no right to violate an ordinance of Rome.” “Then have your way. Bind him securely. Then let him make his orisons to you—in yonder chapel, if you think it would be more holy—and save this man’s soul. Now, girl, get thee to thy chamber.”