“With your permission, my lord,” Ratcliffe observed, “Kendale will take down your statement and you may sign it. . .  His Majesty will not return till vespers.”

The Duke laughed shortly.  “Ere which time I shall be sped, you mean.  Well, summon Kendale, and that promptly, for methinks yon scaffold is about ready for its office.”

Word for word the King’s secretary reduced the narrative.

“Read it,” the Duke commanded when it was done. . .  “Is that sufficiently definite and accurate? . . .  Then let me sign it.”

With a labored flourish he attached his name and sealed it with his ring.  Ratcliffe and Kendale duly attested it; and sealing it again over the outside edge he handed it to De Lacy: 

“When Darby stands against you,” he said, “strike one blow for the dead Buckingham. . .  Nay, man, take it not so to heart; it is a hazard we all must play some time.  And who knows, forsooth, but that in the cast I win a fairer land than this I leave behind?”

“Aye, perchance it is we who lose,” said Ratcliffe thoughtfully.

“God grant it be so,” De Lacy added.

“Amen!” the Duke rejoined.  “For then some day you, too, shall win.”

From below came the measured tramp of men; and though the window was closed, the murmurings and mutterings of the crowd grow noticeably louder.  The pounding of hammers had ceased and in its place were the gruff commands as the soldiers forced the rabble back from the scaffold; followed presently by the ring of grounded halberds.

The Duke of Buckingham walked to the window and opening the casement looked for a moment into the courtyard.  Then as the tread of the guard sounded on the stairs, he turned away and, shaking the dust from his cloak, flung it about his shoulders.

“Lead on, my man, I am ready,” he said indifferently, as Raynor Royk, death warrant in hand, stepped within.  “No need to read it; I know its message. . .  Will you bear me company, good sirs?” he asked rather as one who invites than requests.  “I promise I shall not detain you long.”

For answer, both Ratcliffe and De Lacy sprang forward and offered him their arms.  The Duke shook his head.

“You are most fair and courteous, but I must walk alone—­to be supported would give ground for evil tongues to slur upon my courage.  Your simple presence will be sustenance enough.”

As the procession of death came out into the courtyard, the crowd that swayed and surged behind the men-at-arms, went quiet . . . a murmur gathered, that swelled louder and still louder, until the proud figure of Buckingham stepped upon the scaffold—­then it ceased abruptly, and a heavy stillness came.  And beside the block, in black shirt and hose and leaning on the long shaft of the huge axe, stood the masked headsman, motionless and grim.

For a space Stafford glanced carelessly over the crowd; then lifted his eyes toward the blue above him, as though fain to see the bourne whither he was bound.  And standing so, suddenly a smile of rarest beauty broke upon his face, as if, in truth, a flash of immortal vision had been vouchsafed of the Land beyond the sky.