The whole affair was over almost as quickly as begun, and the Duke of Gloucester never so much as changed position during the tumult, save to lower the hand that had menaced Hastings.  Then, when all the counsellors were crowded together and surrounded by the soldiers, he spoke quietly, addressing Raynor Royk: 

“Commit the Archbishop of York, the Bishop of Ely, and Lord Stanley to the Garden Tower.  See that Stanley’s hurts be dressed.  Release the others, save the traitor Hastings.  Him conduct to the Chapel Green, and let his head be stricken from his fell carcass without delay, save for absolution if he so desire it. . .  Gentlemen, attend me.”

Adjusting his cloak the Protector quitted the apartment and in silence descended to the courtyard.  There he drew his arm within Stafford’s, and dismissing the others proceeded slowly toward the royal lodge at the southeast angle of the fortress.

“Verily will this day live in England’s history,” said De Wilton.  “Stoney Stratford was but a game of marteaux beside it.”

“But when ends it?” said De Lacy solemnly.

“Yonder, on the throne in Westminster,” De Wilton replied, almost in a whisper.

“Nay, I mean the final end.  Methinks I hear the rattle of armor and the splintering of spears.”

At that moment the file of soldiers emerged from the White Tower with Lord Hastings in their midst, walking with the same grace and ease of carriage that always distinguished him, his face calm and serene.  As his eyes fell upon the two younger Knights, who were moving slowly toward the river gate, he said a word to Raynor Royk, and the column halted.  Raising his voice, that had rung over so many stricken fields, leading the very flower of York’s chivalry, he called: 

“Be Lacy!  De Wilton! . . .  Will you not,” as they hurried to him, “by your oath of pity and humility, accompany me to the block?  It is hard enough, God knows, that one who has both rank and blood should die without trial or legal judgment; yet that none but hirelings should be with me at the end is inhuman beyond measure.  Look at yonder sycophants, who but an hour ago hung upon my slightest gesture, now hurrying from me as though I had the plague.”

“Whatever we can do, my lord,” said De Lacy, “pray command.  I would we had power to stay your doom.”

Hastings smiled sadly.  “I shall not detain you long.  Lead on, my man.”

It was but a step to the Chapel, and seeing that neither block nor headsman was in waiting he shrugged his shoulders and laughed sarcastically: 

“Not honored even by the usual participants,” he remarked.  “Yon log of timber and a common axe must serve the purpose.  A strange undoing for one who has ridden boot to boot with Edward . . . a Lord Chamberlain and Captain of Calais.”