I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin,
St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England,
And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury.
[GRIM _wraps his arms about the_ ARCHBISHOP.
Spare this defence, dear brother.
[TRACY _has arisen, and approaches, hesitatingly,
with his sword raised_.
FITZURSE.
Strike him, Tracy!
ROSAMUND (_rushing down steps from the choir)_.
No, No, No, No!
FlTZURSE.
This wanton here. De Morville,
Hold her away.
DE MORVILLE.
I hold her.
ROSAMUND (_held back by_ DE MORVILLE, _and stretching out her arms)_.
Mercy, mercy,
As you would hope for mercy.
FlTZURSE.
Strike, I say.
GRIM.
O God, O noble knights, O sacrilege!
Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral!
The Pope, the King, will curse you--the whole world
Abhor you; ye will die the death of dogs!
Nay, nay, good Tracy. [_Lifts his arm_.
FlTZURSE.
Answer not, but strike.
DE TRACY.
There is my answer then.
[_Sword falls on_ GRIM'S _arm, and glances from it,
wounding_ BECKET.
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