The king had closed his eyes to earth, to
open them again there above, as a guilt-laden sinner in the presence
of God.
For three days his death was kept a secret. They wanted first to
have everything arranged, and to fill up the void which his death
must make. They wanted, when they spoke to the people of the dead
king, to show them also at the same time the living king. And since
they knew that the people would not weep for the dead, they were to
rejoice for the living; since they would sing no funeral psalms,
they were to let their hymns of joy resound.
On the third day the gates of Whitehall were thrown open, and a
gloomy funeral train moved through the streets of London. In dead
silence the populace saw borne past them the coffin of the king,
before whom they had trembled so much, and for whom they now had not
a word of mourning or of pity--no tears for the dead who for seven-
and-thirty years had been their king.
They were bearing the coffin to Westminster Abbey to the splendid
monument which Wolsey had built there for his royal master. But the
way was long, and the panting horses with black housings, which drew
the hearse, had often to stop and rest. And all of a sudden, as the
carriage stood still on one of the large open squares, blood was
seen to issue from the king's coffin. It streamed down in crimson
currents and flowed over the stones of the streets. The people with
a shudder stood around and saw the king's blood flowing, and thought
how much blood he had spilt on that same spot, for the coffin was
standing on the square where the executions were wont to take place,
and where the scaffolds were erected and the stakes set.
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