_Eper._ I like not this friar's look: 'Twere not amiss, my lord, if he were search'd. _Henry._ Sweet Epernoun, our friars are holy men. And will not offer violence to their king For all the wealth and treasure of the world.-- Friar, thou dost acknowledge me thy king? _Fri._ I, my good lord, and will die therein. _Henry._ Then come thou near, and tell what news thou bring'st. _Fri._ My lord, The President of Paris greets your grace, 30 And sends his duty by these speedy lines, Humbly craving your gracious reply. [_Gives letter._ _Henry._ I'll read them, friar, and then I'll answer thee. _Fri._ _Sancte Jacobe_,[428] now have mercy upon me! [_Stabs the king with a knife, as he reads the letter; and then the king gets the knife, and kills him._ _Eper._ O my lord, let him live a while! _Henry._ No, let the villain die, and feel in hell Just torments for his treachery. _Nav._ What, is your highness hurt? _Henry._ Yes, Navarre; but not to death, I hope. _Nav._ God shield your grace from such a sudden death!-- 40 Go call a surgeon hither straight. [_Exit an_ Attendant. _Henry._ What irreligious pagans' parts be these, Of such as hold them of the holy church! Take hence that damnèd villain from my sight. [Attendants _carry out the_ Friar's _body._ _Eper._ Ah, had your highness let him live, We might have punish'd him to his deserts! _Henry._ Sweet Epernoun, all rebels under heaven Shall take example by his[429] punishment, How they bear arms against their sovereign.-- Go call the English agent hither straight: 50 [_Exit an_ Attendant. I'll send my sister England news of this, And give her warning of her treacherous foes. _Enter a_ Surgeon. _Nav._ Pleaseth your grace to let the surgeon search your wound? _Henry._ The wound, I warrant ye, is deep, my lord.-- Search, surgeon, and resolve me what thou see'st. [_The_ Surgeon _searches the wound._ _Enter the_ English Agent.