He

French, did believe that they were very angry, and that they used the duke very rudely. being ready, and informed that his breakfast was ready, drew towards the door, where the hangings were held up; and, in the very passage, turning himself to speak with sir Thomas Fryer, a colonel of the army, who was then speaking near his ear, he was on a sudden struck over his shoulder upon the breast with a knife; upon which, without using any other words but that, "The villain hath killed "me," and in the same moment pulling out the knife himself, he fell down dead, the knife having pierced his heart.

No man had seen the blow, or the man who made it; but in the confusion they were in, every man made his own conjectures, and declared it as a thing known; most agreeing that it was done by the French, from the angry discourse they thought they heard from them. And it was a kind of a miracle, that they were not all killed in that instant; the soberer sort, that preserved them from it, having the same opinion of their guilt, and only reserving them for a more judicial examination and proceeding.

In the crowd near the door there was found upon the ground a hat, in the inside whereof there was sewed upon the crown a paper, in which were writ four or five lines of that declaration made by the house of commons, in which they had styled the duke an enemy to the kingdom, and under it a short ejaculation or two towards a prayer. It was easily enough concluded that the hat belonged to the person who had committed the murder: but the difficulty remained still as great, who that

person should be; for the writing discovered nothing of the name; and whosoever it was, it was very natural to believe that he was gone far enough not to be found without a hat.

In this hurry, one running one way, another another way, a man was seen walking before the door very composedly without a hat; whereupon one crying out, "Here is the fellow that killed the "duke!" upon which others ran thither, every body asking, "Which is he? Which is he?" To which the man without the hat very composedly answered, "I am he." Thereupon some of those who were most furious, suddenly ran upon the man with their drawn swords to kill him; but others, who were at least equally concerned in the loss, and in the sense of it, defended him; himself with open arms very calmly and cheerfully exposing himself to the fury and swords of the most enraged, as being very willing to fall a sacrifice to their sudden anger, rather than to be kept for that deliberate justice which he knew must be exercised upon him.

He was now known enough, and easily discovered to be that Felton, whom we mentioned before, who had been a lieutenant in the army. He was quickly carried into a private room by the persons of the best condition, some whereof were in authority, who first thought fit so far to dissemble, as to mention the duke only as grievously wounded, but not without hope of recovery. Upon which Felton smiled, and said, he knew well he had given him a blow, that had determined all those hopes. Being then asked (which was the discovery principally aimed at) by whose instigation he had performed

that horrid and wicked act, he answered them with a wonderful assurance, "That they should not "trouble themselves in that inquiry; that no man 'living had credit or power enough in him, to

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have engaged or disposed him to such an action; "that he had never intrusted his purpose and reso"lution to any man; that it proceeded only from " himself and the impulsion of his own conscience; " and that the motives thereunto would appear, if "his hat were found, in which he had therefore "fixed them, because he believed it very probable "that he might perish in the attempt. He con"fessed that he had come to the town but the night before, and had kept his lodging, that he might not be seen or taken notice of; and that "he had come that morning to the duke's lodg'ing, where he had waited at the door for his coming out; and when he found, by the motions within, that he was coming, he drew to the door, as if he held up the hanging; and sir Thomas Fryer speaking at that time to the duke, as hath "been said, and being of a much lower stature "than the duke, who a little inclined towards him, " he took the opportunity of giving the blow over "his shoulder."

He spoke very frankly of what he had done, and bore the reproaches of those who spoke to him, with the temper of a man who thought he had not done amiss. But after he had been in prison some time, where he was treated without any rigour, and with humanity enough; and before, and at his trial, which was about four months after, at the king's bench bar, he behaved himself with great modesty and wonderful repentance; being,

as he said, convinced in his conscience, that he had done wickedly, and asked the pardon of the king, the duchess, and of all the duke's servants, whom he acknowledged to have offended; and very earnestly besought the judges, that he might have his hand struck off, with which he had performed that impious act, before he should be put to death. The court was too near Portsmouth, and too many courtiers upon the place, to have this murder (so wonderful in the nature and circumstances, the like whereof had not been known in England in many ages) long concealed from the king. His majesty was at the public prayers of the church, when sir John Hippesly came into the room, with a troubled countenance, and, without any pause in respect of the exercise they were performing, went directly to the king, and whispered in his ear what had fallen out. His majesty continued unmoved, and without the least change in his countenance, till prayers were ended; when he suddenly departed to his chamber, and threw himself upon his bed, lamenting with much passion, and with abundance of tears, the loss he had of an excellent servant, and the horrid manner in which he had been deprived of him; and he continued in this melancholic and discomposure of mind many days.

Yet the manner of his receiving the news in public, when it was first brought to him in the presence of so many, (who knew or saw nothing of the passion he expressed upon his retreat,) made many men to believe, that the accident was not very ungrateful; at least, that it was very indifferent to him; as being rid of a servant very ungracious to the people, and the prejudice to

whose person exceedingly obstructed all overtures made in parliament for his service.

And, upon this observation, persons of all conditions took great license in speaking of the person of the duke, and dissecting all his infirmities, believing they should not thereby incur any displeasure of the king. In which they took very ill measures; for from that time almost to the time of his own death, the king admitted very few into any degree of trust, who had ever discovered themselves to be enemies to the duke, or against whom he had ever manifested a notable prejudice. And sure never any prince manifested a more lively regret for the loss of a servant, than his majesty did for this great man, in his constant favour and kindness to his wife and children, in a wonderful solicitous care for the payment of his debts, (which, it is very true, were contracted for his service; though in such a manner, that there remained no evidence of it, nor was any of the duke's officers intrusted with the knowledge of it, nor was there any record of it, but in his majesty's own generous memory,) and all offices of grace towards his servants.

After all this, and such a transcendent mixture of ill fortune, of which as ill conduct and great infirmities seem to be the foundation and source, this great man was a person of a noble nature, and generous disposition, and of such other endowments, as made him very capable of being a great favourite to a great king. He understood the arts and artifices of a court, and all the learning that is professed there, exactly well. By long practice in business, under a master that discoursed excel