Henry is in Normandy, but the news speedily reaches him, and then his passion knows no bounds. “Here,” he shouts to the knights about him, “here is a man that has eaten my bread, a pitiful fellow that came to my court on a sorry hackney, and owes all he has to me, lifting his hand against me, and insulting my kingdom and my kindred, and not one of the cowardly, sluggish knaves I feed and pay so well has the heart to avenge me!” Fatal words! Four of the knights who listen to the king’s bitter reproof steal away from his court and hurry to Canterbury. While cool reflection has brought wiser counsels to the king, they are bursting into the archbishop’s chamber at Canterbury, and are commanding him to absolve the bishops without delay. He argues with them, and they threaten him, but he is obdurate. “Then we will do more than threaten,” they say, and outside they go to don their coats of mail. Meanwhile the frightened monks run to the archbishop and beg him to take shelter in the cathedral. He laughs at their fears. “Methinks,” he says, “all you monks are cowards.” Not a step will he stir till the bell summons him to vespers. Then he walks serenely to the cathedral. Soon the knights are thundering at the barred door. “Unbolt the door,” cries Becket; “I will not have God’s house made a fortress for me.” The timid monks dare not obey him, and he flings back the bolt himself. Then the knights enter, and one of them attempts to drag him outside, so that the murderer’s work may not be done within consecrated walls. Becket clings to the great pillar, and Grim, the only brave monk in the chapter, holds him fast. “Strike! strike!” shouts one of the knights, and the sword descends. The devoted Grim catches the blade on his arm, and falls back wounded. Then the blows fall thick and fast, and the archbishop sinks to the ground, crying out that he dies for the cause of God and the Church. And here we leave him in the gloom and silence of his cathedral. Becket is dead; but though he goes hence and is no more seen, he is mightier in death than he was in life. He conquers as his heart’s blood drips from him. All Christendom stands aghast at the murder. Henry is horrified when he learns the news, and his grief is real and profound. He instantly sends explanations to the Pope, and, fearing that his enemies will unite against him, embarks for Ireland. In due course he returns to Normandy, and swears that he had no foreknowledge of the archbishop’s death. There is no more talk of curbing the Church; it has proved far too strong for him. “O’er the rough stones that pave the ancient way, Barefoot, a king in penitent array, Crawls humbly to the canonizèd bones. Doffing his state, he eagerly atones, Performs the penance haughty priests decide, And stills the throbbings of rebellious pride. Prostrate, he feels the stroke of chastening rod, And cleansed, he rises, reconciled with God.”