Even the stern, prosaic Ratcliffe saw it thus; and in awed tones whispered to De Lacy, “He has had that sight of Heaven which is said comes sometimes to those about to die.”

And the Duke, his vision passed, yet with the air of one who has received the promise of content, turned to the Bishop of Bath and dropping on one knee bared his head and bent it for the extreme absolution.  At the end, he took Ratcliffe and De Lacy by the hand.

“You have been friends at a trying time,” he said, “and I thank you from the heart.” . . .  He drew a chain of gold from within his doublet:  “Here, Sir Aymer de Lacy, is my George; do you return it to the King—­it may suggest to him that you should take my place.”

“You are very thoughtful, my lord,” De Lacy answered brokenly.

“And I am enjoined by the King,” said Ratcliffe, “to assure you that your domains shall not be forfeited or your Line attainted.”

The Duke looked at the Master of Horse steadily for a moment.

“Verily, Richard is a mystery,” he said.  “Is he then greedy of naught save power, that he passes thus my lands and castles?”

“Methinks there are many who misjudge him,” Ratcliffe answered.

“Perchance!  Yet my judgment is of small import now.  Nathless, I thank him for his clemency and consideration toward my wife and son.  And touching my body, I trust it may be decently interred.”

“It will be laid beside your ancestors; and with every ceremony your family may desire.”

“Truly, this death is not so hard,” Stafford said, with a bit of a laugh.  “You have just robbed it of its only terrors.  Farewell, my friends, farewell!”—­And again he took their hands.

Turning to the headsman, who had stood motionless the while, he ran his eyes over the stalwart figure.

“Have you been long at the trade, fellow?” he asked.

“These two and twenty years,” came from behind the mask, though the man moved not at all.

“Then you should have learned to strike straight.”

“Never but once did I miss my aim,” was the grim reply.

“Well, make not, I pray you, a second miss with me.”

Calmly as though preparing for his couch and a night’s repose, he unlaced his doublet and took it off; and laying back his placard, nodded to the executioner.

The sombre figure came suddenly to life, and drawing from his girdle a pair of heavy shears he swiftly cropped the Duke’s long hair where it hung below the neck—­then stepped back and waited.

“Are you ready?” Buckingham asked.

The man nodded and resumed his axe.

With a smile on his lips and with all the proud dignity of his great House, Stafford walked to the block and laid his head upon it.

“Strike!” he said sharply.

The executioner swung the axe aloft and brought it slowly down, staying it just ere the edge touched the flesh.  There, for an instant, he held it, measuring his distance, while the sunlight flashed along its polished face.  Suddenly it rose again, and sweeping in a wide circle of shimmering steel fell with the speed of a thunder-bolt.