The Dutch Ambassador interceded for the King; the Queen and the Prince of Wales wrote, offering to accept any conditions Parliament might require if only the King might be spared; but the stern enthusiasts who had resolved to sacrifice the blood of the tyrant were not to be turned from their purpose now by any entreaty or threat whatever; the thing they were about to do was awful, incredible to the whole world, but they were not to be stopped now. The Scottish commissioners spoke for the King, too, but in vain; neither they nor the others got any answer.

That day, Monday, the King was permitted to take leave of the only two of his children left in England—the Duke of Gloucester and the Princess Elisabeth; that day Oliver Cromwell and his colleagues signed the death-warrant at Whitehall.

The next day was appointed for the execution; the King slept that night at St. James's Palace, but Oliver Cromwell, in the rich chamber in Whitehall, slept not at all, but prayed from candlelight to dawn, then armed himself and went out to meet the other commissioners who were in the banqueting hall, urging that the workmen be hastened with the scaffold in front of the Palace, which was not yet ready, nor did look to be ready before the King came.

Charles slept; neither dreams nor visions disturbed him, and when he woke, two hours before the dawn, he remembered everything at once, very clearly.

He remembered that he was to die to-day, that he had taken leave of his children and given Elisabeth two diamond seals for her mother.... He remembered that he would never see the Queen again, and that he left her an exile dependent on her sister-in-law, the Regent of France.

And as he got out of bed he remembered Lord Strafford.

He dressed himself with great slowness and care in the clothes he had worn during his trial; he put on two shirts and a blue silk vest, for it was cold and he had no wish to shiver; he exactly adjusted the black and silver, the Flemish lace, the knots of ribbon; he combed his hair and arranged it in the long, smooth ringlets.... Once or twice while he was dressing he paused.

"O God," he said, "am I—the King—going to die to-day?"

He was still incredulous; it seemed to himself that his feelings were suspended. He moved mechanically; he had an almost childish anxiety not to tremble; he kept holding out his right hand and looking at it; when he saw that it was steady he smiled.

When he came to fasten his doublet he went to the mirror framed in embroidery and tortoise-shell, which hung at the foot of his bed, and then he noticed that his face was slightly distorted—at one side drawn with a strange contraction.... Yet he told himself that he felt quite calm; he tried to smooth that look away from his features with his fingers, then moved away abruptly and opened the window.

He wondered what Strafford had looked like just before his death, and it came to him that he was enduring what Strafford had endured—minute by minute the same—he was also the same age as Strafford had been, to the very year.

He sat down in the great arm-chair by the bed and tried to think; what a failure his life had been, what a collapse of all hopes and ambitions—how incomplete; he was very, very weary of the long struggle which he had maintained so unyieldingly, and not sorry to have it ended.

Yet it was an awful thing to die this way—and so suddenly.

Only a month ago he had been at Windsor, firmly believing that his enemies would destroy each other, firmly believing that he would once more come to Whitehall, a king, and hang all these rebels and traitors.

And now it was all over, all the hopes and fears, suspenses and agitations, all the struggles and defeats and intrigues; there were only a few hours of time left, and only one thing more to do—to die decently.

He put on his shoes with the big crimson roses, his light sword, his George with the collar of knots and roses, his black velvet cloak; then as the dawn began to blur the candlelight, Bishop Juxon, whose attendance had been permitted him, came to him. It was this Bishop who had urged him not to assent to Strafford's death—how well both men remembered that now—across all the tumultuous events which lay between—how well!

Charles rose.

"I thank you for your loyalty, my lord," he said; and then he was silent, for he thought that his voice sounded unnatural.

"May Your Majesty wake to-morrow so glorified that you will forget to-day!" replied the Bishop.

"To-morrow!" repeated Charles absently. "Ay, to-morrow—you will get up to-morrow and move and eat—ay, to-morrow——"

"To-morrow thou wilt be in Paradise, sire," replied Juxon firmly, and a sincere hope and courage shone in his eyes, which were red and swollen with weeping.

"I die for the Church of England," said the King quickly. "They may say what they will, but if I had abandoned Episcopacy I might have lived."

"God knoweth it," answered the Bishop solemnly, "and men will know it after a little while."

Charles took up his hat, his gloves, his cane, and without speaking followed the Bishop into the little royal chapel where he had so often worshipped in happier times.

He took the Sacrament; when the ceremony was over a calm, almost a lethargy, fell on his spirits; he tried to think of great and tremendous things, of what was behind him and what was before him, but his brain slipped from them; even the Queen had become absolutely remote. He found himself wondering how Strafford had felt at this same moment in his life.

When he left the chapel he went to one of the antechambers and waited.

Trivial things attracted his attention: he noticed that the ceiling needed repainting, and, looking down at his collar of the George, the foolish thought occurred to him as he saw the enamelled blossoms that he would never behold real roses again, for this was winter and there would be no flowers in the park which he would have to pass through.

He wished that he could fix his mind on something high and splendid now there was so little longer left in which to think of anything, and it distressed him that he could not.

None of this appeared in his demeanour; he sat, looking very stately and noble, with his cloak wrapped round him for the cold and his cane in his hand.

"The omens were against me from the first," he said suddenly. "I was crowned in white, like a shroud, and at my coronation sermon the text was: 'Be thou faithful unto Death and I will give thee a crown of Eternal Life'; then my flag was blown down at Nottingham—and the other day, at what they call my trial, the head fell off my cane."

This speech showed that his mind still ran on worldly things; but Juxon seized hold on a portion of his words with which to give him comfort.

"Thou hast been faithful unto death," he said, "and to-day will enter on to Eternal Life."

"I said I would die rather than betray the Church of England," answered Charles, "and I have redeemed it to the letter."

As he spoke there entered unceremoniously Colonel Hacker, one of the three officers appointed to convey him to Whitehall.

Charles rose with such majesty and undaunted dignity that the stout Puritan was, for a moment, abashed, and held out his warrant in silence.

"I submit to your power, but I defy your authority," said the King contemptuously, and with that clapped on his hat and followed the officer, Juxon following him.

When they reached the fresh air Charles felt a new vigour, a certain excitement; in all the depth of his fall and the bitterness of his humiliation, in all the extreme of his failure and the mightiness of his defeat, he had his own inner triumph. He might be broken but he was not bent; he died a King, not yielding a jot of his rights, bequeathing to his son a lost heritage, but one uncurtailed by any concession of his. He was dying for his beliefs—because he would not forgo them they were killing him; he found satisfaction in that thought.

When he came to where his escort of guards waited, he cried out in his usual tone of authority, "March on apace!"

It was now about ten o'clock; the heavy air had hardly lifted over London, but it was pleasant in the Park, and from the bare fields and hedgerows beyond came a waft of winter freshness; all the view was blocked by people and regiment upon regiment of soldiers, all motionless and expressionless.

"It is an ordinary day," said Charles, "like a hundred other days, but it shall long be marked with red in England's calendar."

The people, overawed by the soldiers and by the terror of the occasion, were strangely silent as he passed; the prevailing emotion seemed a desperate curiosity, as if they waited, breathless, to know if this horrific thing could really come to pass.

The King thought of nothing but of how Strafford had walked so....

When he came to Whitehall he was conducted to his own bedchamber; there was a fire burning and a breakfast laid for him. In these familiar surroundings, where some of the happy moments of his splendid life had been spent, a faint horror came over him, and he felt his knees tremble; he found, too, that a physical sickness touched him at the sight of the food.

"I have taken the Sacrament," he said briefly. Then he asked of the soldiers still attending him—"How long?"—and they told him "Till the scaffold was finished."

"It is terrible," said Charles to the bishop, "to wait."

The Commissioners were waiting too. Oliver Cromwell was in the boarded gallery, and with him was one Nunelly, the doorkeeper to the committee of the army, who had a warrant of 50,000 to deliver to the Lieutenant-General, with them were Major Harrison and Mr. Hugh Peters.

"O Lord!" cried this last, "what mercy to see this great city fall down before us! And what a stir there is to bring this great man to justice, without whose blood he would turn us all to blood had he reigned again!"

Oliver Cromwell took the packet from Nunelly; he was quite white, and his hand shook so that twice the package dropped.

"Nunelly," he said hoarsely, "will you see the beheading of the King—surely you will see the beheading of the King?"

And without waiting for an answer he began to pace up and down, in uncontrollable agitation and excitement.

And presently Hugh Peters and Richard Nunelly went out into the banqueting hall, and out of the centre window on to the scaffold where the joiners were yet at work driving staples in.

When they returned to the boarded gallery, Cromwell and Harrison were still there.

"This will be a good day," said Peters.

"Are you not afraid that it will be a bloody day to all England?" asked Nunelly fearfully.

"This is not a thing done in a corner," replied Harrison calmly, "but before the world. I follow not my own poor judgment, but the revealed word of God in His Holy Scriptures."

Cromwell turned to Peters who stood in his black cloak and hat like death's own herald.

"Is it ready?" he asked. "Why this delay—this intolerable delay?"

His voice shook as he spoke.

"Are the vizards ready?" he asked again.

"Ay, it is Brandon the hangman and the fellow Hulet, and they are to have thirty pounds apiece—and now, I think, Colonel Hacker may go to fetch the King," replied Peters.

"Will you see him pass?" asked Harrison.

"I will not look on him again, alive or dead!" replied Cromwell sombrely.

But Peters and Nunelly went to an upper window where they might have a good view....

In his bedchamber the King still waited; the soldiers had withdrawn and left him alone with Juxon, to whom the dying man gave his last instructions, and one, above all, important.

"Let my son forgive his father's murderers—and let him always maintain the Church of England and his own royal rights in this realm—let him make no compromise on these points. And let my younger sons never be cajoled into taking their brother's place—my son Charles, who, in a few moments now, will be King of England and Scotland."

"I promise," said Juxon.

Then the King rose and walked up and down.

"Jesus, God!" he cried, "spare me this waiting!"

"I implore Your Majesty to eat and drink a little," entreated the bishop, and Charles, who felt himself indeed sick and faint, drank a glass of claret and eat a piece of bread. When he had finished he took a white satin cap from his pocket and gave it to Juxon, also his watch, with some broken words of thanks. Then Colonel Hacker came, and the King turned to go through the splendid galleries of his old home to his death.

He had his hat on and said not a word; beneath his composure he was struggling to overcome the physical weakness that beset him, rendering him incapable of high thoughts; the sensitive flesh shrank from what it had to face; already he felt a ring of pain round his neck.

The fine apartments, the paintings, the rich furniture still there, swam dizzily before his eyes; but he walked firmly....

Colonel Hacker led the way; they stepped through the centre window of the banqueting hall on to a scaffold hung with black, on which stood the two vizards or headsmen; both of whom wore frieze breeches and coats—one had a grey beard showing beneath the mask, the other was disguised with a light wig. When Charles stepped out of the window he recoiled with a repulsion no pride could control. In the foreground the two black figures, and beyond a sea of white faces, all looking at him; even the soldiers, horse and foot, their red coats and steel brightening the grey morning, were looking at him—all in silence.

His glance fell to the block. "Is it so low?" he asked, in a horrified way. Then he recovered himself and turned to the few about him.

"It was the Parliament began the war, not I," he said, "but I hope they may be guiltless too, and all blame may go to the ill instruments which came between us"—here one of the officers touched the axe, and the King cried out—"Take care of the axe! take care of the axe!"—resuming afterwards his speech. "The government rests with the King and not with the people, in that belief and in the faith of the Church of England I die."

He laid off his cloak and hat, then added with great wistfulness—

"In one respect I suffer justly, and that is because I have permitted an unjust sentence to be executed on another."

He took off his George and the little miniature of the Queen (which he kissed), and gave them to Juxon.

He gave a purse of guineas to the grey-bearded vizard with the axe, who knelt to ask his pardon, and again that awful sickness closed over his heart.

"Take care they do not put me to pain," he said to Colonel Hacker, and his lips trembled. Then to the man, "I shall say but very short prayers, and then thrust out my hands—at this sign do you strike."

"I will warrant, sir," said Colonel Hacker, "the fellow is skilful."

The King now took off his doublet, sword, and sword-string, doing it carefully that he might gain time for perfect composure at the supreme minute.

Juxon approached him.

"Your Majesty hath but one more stage to travel in this weary world, and though that is a turbulent and troublesome stage, it is a short one, and will carry Your Majesty all the way from earth to heaven."

Charles looked at St. James's Palace showing beyond the multitude of faces.

"I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side," he said. He took the white satin cap from the bishop, and put his hair up in it; a slight figure he looked now in the straight blue vest and white cap.

The church bells struck half-past twelve, the sluggard sun sent faint rays through the low winter clouds. The King knelt down. "Remember," he said to Juxon.

A great excitement steadied him, driving away the sickness; this was the end, the end—and after?

He placed his forehead in the niche of the block; the position was uncomfortable, and he was staring down at the black covering of the scaffold floor.

He closed his eyes, clutching his hands on his breast; he felt the keen air on his bare neck, and confused visions leaped before him. He tried to pray.

"Lord Jesus," he murmured swiftly. "Lord Jesus——" he could think of nothing more; with an almost mechanical movement he threw out his hands.

He heard the headsman step nearer; he set his teeth.

The axe struck cleanly; the blood was over all of them, and the vizard with the light wig held up by the long grey curls the head which had bounded to his feet.

"God save the people of England!" said Colonel Hacker.

A deep and awful groan broke from the multitude, and the soldiers, hitherto immovable, turned about in all directions, clearing the streets.