Was not the great gate shut?
They are thronging in to vespers--half the town.
We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him!
Come with us--nay--thou art our prisoner--come!
DE MORVILLE.
Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man.
[FITZURSE _lays hold of the_ ARCHBISHOP'S _pall_.
BECKET.
Touch me not!
DE BRITO.
How the good priest gods himself!
He is not yet ascended to the Father.
FITZURSE.
I will not only touch, but drag thee hence.
BECKET.
Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away!
[_Flings him off till he reels, almost to falling_.
DE TRACY (_lays hold of the pall_).
Come; as he said, thou art our prisoner.
BECKET.
Down!
[_Throws him headlong_.
FITZURSE (_advances with drawn sword_).
I told thee that I should remember thee!
BECKET.
Profligate pander!
FITZURSE.
Do you hear that? strike, strike.
[_Strikes off the_ ARCHBISHOP'S _mitre, and wounds
him in the forehead_.
BECKET (_covers his eyes with his hand_).
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