He comes forward calmly, with quiet dignity; a stately, fair-haired man,--ready to die, because ready to meet God. And we know the face of Richard of Conisborough, the finest and purest character of the royal line, the fairest bud of the White Rose. He has little wish to live longer. Life was stripped of its flowers for him four years ago, when he heard the earth cast on the coffin of his pale desert flower. She is in Heaven; and Christ is in Heaven; and Heaven is better than earth. So what matter, though the passage be low and dark which leads up to the gate of the Garden of God? Yet this is no easy nor honourable death to die. No easy death to a man of high sense of chivalrous honour; no light burden, thus to be led forth before the multitude, to a death of shame,--on his part undeserved. Perhaps men will know some day how little he deserved it. At any rate, God knows. And whatever shameful end be decreed for the servant, it can never surpass that of the Master. The utmost that any child of God can suffer for Christ, can never equal what Christ has suffered for him. And so, calm in mien, willing in heart, Richard of Conisborough went through the dark passage, to the Garden of God. But if ever a judicial murder were committed in this world, it was done that day on Southampton Green, when the blood of the Lollard Prince dyed the dust of the scaffold. The accusation brought against the victims was high treason. The indictment bore falsehood on its face by going too far. It asserted, not only that they had conspired to raise March to the throne--which might perhaps have been believed; but also that they had plotted the assassination of King Henry--which no one who knew them could believe; that March, taken into their counsels, had asked for an hour to consider the matter, and had then gone straight to the King and revealed the plot--which no one who knew March could believe. The whole accusation was a tissue of improbabilities and inconsistencies. No evidence was offered; the conclusion was foregone from the beginning. So they died on Southampton Green. Perhaps Henry's heart failed him at the last moment. For some reason, Richard of Conisborough was spared the last and worst ignominy of a traitor's death--the exposure of the severed head on some city gate. Henry allowed his remains to receive quiet and honourable burial. The next day a decree was passed, pardoning March for all crimes and offences. The only offence which he had ever committed against the House of Lancaster was his own existence; and for that he could scarcely be held responsible, either in law or equity. But can we say as much for the offence against God and man which he committed on that sixth of August, when he suffered himself to be dragged to the judge's bench, on which he sat with others to condemn the husband of that sister Anne who had been his all but mother?