“What would you of me?” answers Father Anastasius, striding from the altar. “How dared you marry them?” “By command of the Virgin! See! Our Mother has taken the face of his bride to protect him.” “Ah—h! the juggling trick,” cries Alva, “the picture painted by the traitor Oliver that comes in to stop my vengeance. But it shall not; it is an affair of State!” And he signs to the hangman who is beside him, the noose in his hands. But Hermoine, confronting her father, answers: “No dastard death for my husband, who is as noble as yourself. At least the mercy of the sword.” “Take it! I give him as noble a death as I granted Egmont and Horn. Hew me off this Englishman’s head on that table.” “Before my eyes?” shudders his daughter. “You wish it. It is an affair of State.” “Father!” screams the girl. For the executioner has drawn his sword; “Father, as you hope for mercy give it to me. Do you want every one on this earth to call you an accursed and cruel butcher? There was only one who did not before to-night. She was your daughter. Would you have her say, ‘My father killed my husband?’” But he answers hoarsely: “Quick, get this thing through.” Four or five of the men would now drag Guy to the table, but Father Anastasius striding to the altar, stands over the bound man and cries: “This is sanctuary! Anathema upon him who enters sacred place with drawn sword and naked weapon! The Madonna commands me! Stand back, or upon you I will launch the curse of Mother Church!” For the hermit priest has got to thinking he has the Virgin’s command to save the bridegroom. But Alva, brushing through the crowd of faltering soldiers, cries: “Get you gone, you cursed priest,” and would make in to seize the bound man, for his men hang back as the priest, raising up his voice, utters: “Anathema!” and begins the awful sentence of excommunication. To this Fernando laughs hoarsely. “Monks fright me not, I who have led army against the Pope!” and will perchance play executioner himself upon the husband of the daughter he loves. At this moment a dark, light-footed girl flies into the window, crying: “This way! Quick!” Alva calls his men to turn about—but it is too late—they all have been so concerned in the execution that they have not noticed the rush of men who are now upon them headed by Corker, with a wild English cheer. It’s scarce a moment ere the astonished body guard are either cut to pieces or driven off to be pursued and butchered in the outer darkness round the house, leaving their master all alone among his enemies, though unwounded; for his armor has shed pistol and arquebus balls. His head is unhelmed and in a minute he would be dead, for Chester now has sword within his hand, and coming up he cries: “It is my turn now! My Lord of Alva!”