“It is not I,” Thomas replied, still calmer and more dignified than the fierce spirits who addressed him, “it is not I who have done this. It is the sovereign pontiff, God’s own supreme vicegerent, who, of his own will, excommunicated my late brother of York. He alone, therefore, can absolve him. I have no power in’t. As for the rest, let them but make submission, and straightway shall they be restored!” “From whom, then,” Reginald Fitz-Urse demanded, “from whom, then, hold you your archbishopric--from England’s king, or from the pope of Rome?” “My spiritual rights, of God and of the pope--my temporal privileges, of the king,” was the prompt answer. “The king, then, gave you _not_?” the baron asked again. “Beware, I warn you, beware how you do answer me: the king, I say, gave you _not_ ALL that you enjoy?” “He did not,” answered Becket, without moving a single muscle of his composed but haughty countenance; although, at the reply, the fiery temper of his unwelcome visiters was made more clearly manifest, as a deep, angry murmur burst simultaneously from all their lips, and they wrung with fierce gestures their gloved hands, as if it was with difficulty they restrained themselves from violence more open in its character. “Ye threaten me, I well believe,” exclaimed the stately prelate, “but it is vain and useless. Were all the swords in England brandished against my head, ye should gain nothing, nothing from me.” “We will do more than threaten,” answered Fitz-Urse; and rising from his seat, rushed out of the apartment, followed by his companions, crying aloud, even before they crossed the threshold, “To-arms, Normans, to-arms!” The doors were closed behind them, and barred instantly with the most jealous care; while Reginald and the conspirators, meeting the guard whom they had left without, armed themselves cap-à-pie in the courtyard before the palace-gates, as if for instant battle, with helmet, hood-of-mail, and hauberk; their triangular steel-plated shields hanging about their necks; their legs protected by mail-hose, fitting as closely and as flexible as modern stockings; their huge two-handed swords belted about them in such fashion, that their cross-guarded hilts came over their left shoulders, while their points clanked against the spur on their right heels. There was no pause; for, snatching instantly an axe from the hands of a carpenter who chanced to be at work in the courtyard, Fitz-Urse assailed the gate. Strong as it was, it creaked and groaned beneath the furious blows, and the long corridors within rolled back the threatening sounds in deep and hollow echoes. Within the palace all was confusion and dismay, and every face was pale and ghastly, save his alone who had the cause for fear. “Fly! fly, my lord!” cried the assistants, breathless with terror; “fly to the altar! There, there, at least, shall you be safe!”