of all offence, and, surely, in the
very face of death a man may be excused for writing humbly to a despot.
Lady Raleigh, meanwhile, was clinging about the knees of Cecil, whose
demeanour during the trial had given her fresh hopes. But neither the
King nor Cecil gave any sign, and in the gathering reaction in favour of
Raleigh remained apparently firm for punishment. The whole body of the
accused were by this time convicted, Watson and all his companions on
the 16th, Raleigh on the 17th, Cobham and Gray on the 18th. On the 29th
Watson and Clarke, the other priest, were executed. Next day, the
Spanish ambassador pleaded for Raleigh's life, but was repulsed. The
King desired the clergy who attended the surviving prisoners to prepare
them rigorously for death, and the Bishop of Winchester gave Raleigh no
hope. On December 6, George Brooke was executed. And now James seems to
have thought that enough blood had been spilt. He would find out the
truth by collecting dying confessions from culprits who, after all,
should not die.

The next week was occupied with the performance of the curious burlesque
which James had invented. The day after George Brooke was beheaded, the
King drew up a warrant to the Sheriff of Hampshire for stay of all the
other executions. With this document in his bosom, he signed
death-warrants for Markham, Gray, and Cobham to be beheaded on the 10th,
and Raleigh on the 13th. The King told nobody of his intention, except a
Scotch boy, John Gibb, who was his page at the moment. On December 10,
at ten o'clock in the morning, Sir Walter Raleigh was desired to come to
the window of his cell in Wolvesey Castle. The night before, he had
written an affecting letter of farewell to his wife, and--such, at
least, is my personal conviction from the internal evidence--the most
extraordinary and most brilliant of his poems, _The Pilgrimage_. By this
time he was sorry that he had bemeaned himself in his first paroxysm of
despair, and he entreated Lady Raleigh to try to get back the letters in
which he sued for his life, 'for,' he said, 'I disdain myself for
begging it.' He went on:

Know it, dear wife, that your son is the child of a true man,
and who, in his own respect, despiseth Death, and all his
misshapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much. God knows how
hardly I stole this time, when all sleep; and it is time to
separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which
living was den