the house in the High Street, Portsmouth, where he lodged whilst
superintending the final preparations for that unpopular
expedition, John Felton, a self-appointed instrument of national
vengeance, drove a knife to the hilt into the Duke's breast.

"May the Lord have mercy on your soul!" was the pious exclamation
with which the slayer struck home. And, in all the circumstances,
there seems to have been occasion for the prayer.






IX. THE PATH OF EXILE

The Fall of Lord Clarendon



Tight-wrapped in his cloak against the icy whips of the black
winter's night, a portly gentleman, well advanced in years,
picked his way carefully down the wet, slippery steps of the
jetty by the light of a lanthorn, whose rays gleamed lividly on
crushed brown seaweed and trailing green sea slime. Leaning
heavily upon the arm which a sailor held out to his assistance,
he stepped into the waiting boat that rose and fell on the
heaving black waters. A boathook scraped against the stones, and
the frail craft was pushed off.