At first, my vision was clouded and I could discern nothing. Finally, a single point of flame broke through the darkness. The flame gradually expanded, and I sensed the motion of men in its midst. Next, it gradually brightened and, just as when one adjusts a pair of field glasses, drew clear in my sight. The scene expanded, flying in from the distance. As I regained my perspective, I saw in the middle a young woman, seated, and to the far right a man, standing. It hit me that both seemed familiar, and just in that instant they zoomed closer still, stopping some twelve yards before me. The man is the shorter fellow from the cellar, with sunken eyes and skin the color of soot, the one who'd been singing that song. He stands at the ready, his left hand leaning on the axe he's ground to a tee, and a ten-inch dagger hanging off his waist. In spite of myself I'm seized with fear. The woman is blindfolded with a white hand linen. She seems to search, with both hands, for the block on which she'll rest her neck. The block is the size of wood-chopping stands used in Japan, and an iron ring is affixed to its front. Straw has been scattered before of the block. A precaution, it seems, against streaming blood. On the far wall lean several women overcome with sorrow, perhaps her ladies in waiting. A priest, in long flowing vestments turned back to reveal a white fur lining, is looking down and guiding the woman's hands toward the block. The woman's dress is white as snow. Golden hair spills onto her shoulder, and billows at times like a cloud. At the sight of her face I'm taken aback. I can't see her eyes, but the shape of her eyebrows, her fine facial build, and the supple lines of her neck are those of the woman from before. I want to run to her, but my legs have crumpled, and I can't manage even a step. The woman has found the block and holds it with both hands. Her lips quiver anxiously. They differ not in the least from before, when she explained the Dudley crest to the boy. Finally, she inclines her head and asks if her husband, Guildford Dudley, has already gone to the kindom of God. A lock of hair, sliding off of her shoulder, undulates gently. The priest replies that of that he cannot say. "Are you ready yet to return to the true path?" he asks. "The path that's mine, and that's my husband's, is true. It's your path that's false and misguided," she replies firmly. The priest holds his silence. The woman seems more at ease now. "If my husband's gone first then I'll follow. If he comes behind then I'll beckon. To reach the righteous kingdom of God, one must tread the righteous path." With that she concludes and throws her neck, as if she's falling, over the block. The short executioner, with sunken eyes and sooty skin, hefts his axe with a heavy spirit. Just as I fear that spurting blood will splash onto my trouser legs, the entire scene is suddenly gone.