[Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs.

Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him!

They love thee, and thou canst not come to harm.

Courtenay (in the pulpit). Shame, shame, my masters are you English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one ? Crowd. A Courtenay! a Courtenay!

[A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage.