Jane Douglas fell on her knees to pray, but her lips trembled so
much that she could find no words for her prayer.
The roll of the drum ceased in the court below, and only the death-
bell still continued to wail and wail. She heard a voice speaking
loud and powerful words.
It was his voice; it was Henry Howard that was speaking. And now
again the hollow roll of the drums drowned his voice.
"He dies! He dies, and I am not with him!" cried she, with a shriek;
and she gathered herself up, and as if borne by a whirlwind she
dashed out of the room, through the corridor, and down the stairs.
There she stood in the court. That dreadful black pile above there,
in the midst of this square crowded with men--that was the scaffold.
Yonder she beheld him prostrate on his knees. She beheld the axe in
the headsman's hand; she saw him raise it for the fatal stroke.
She was a woman no longer, but a lioness! Not a drop of blood was in
her cheeks. Her nostrils were expanded and her eyes darted
lightning.
She drew out a dagger that she had concealed in her bosom, and made
a path through the amazed, frightened, yielding crowd.
With one spring she had rushed up the steps of the scaffold. She now
stood by him on the top of it--close by that kneeling figure.
There was a flash through the air. She heard a peculiar whiz--then a
hollow blow. A red vapor-like streak of blood spurted up, and
covered Jane Douglas with its crimson flood.
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