Those arm'd men in the cloister.
BECKET.
Be not such cravens!
I will go out and meet them.
GRIM _and others_.
Shut the doors!
We will not have him slain before our face.
[_They close the doors of the transept. Knocking_.
Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors!
[_Knocking_.
BECKET.
Why, these are our own monks who follow'd us!
And will you bolt them out, and have _them_ slain?
Undo the doors: the church is not a castle:
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf?
What, have I lost authority among you?
Stand by, make way!
[_Opens the doors. Enter_ MONKS _from cloister_.
Come in, my friends, come in!
Nay, faster, faster!
MONKS.
Oh, my lord Archbishop,
A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes--
To the choir, to the choir!
[_Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the
right, part by those on the left. The rush of
these last bears_ BECKET _along with them some
way up the steps, where he is left standing alone_.
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