"And what hast thou seen, Jack?" said Isoult.

"Three very fine ladies and three very fine gentlemen," answered he; "with a great many more ladies and gentlemen, not quite so fine."

"What ware they?" asked Kate.

"Was the King there?" Isoult inquired.

"What ware they, Moppet?" said John, taking up Kate; "why, many a yard of cloth of gold, and satin, and velvet, and I cannot tell thee what else. They were as fine as ever the tailor could make them.—Ay, dear heart, the King was there."

But his voice changed, so that Isoult could read in it a whole volume of bad news.

"Is he sick, then, as we heard?" she asked.

"Hardly," he answered in a low voice, "say rather dying."

"O Jack!" cried she.

"O Isoult, if thou hadst seen him!" said he, his voice quivering. "The fierce, unnatural radiance in those soft, meek grey eyes, as though there were a fire consuming him within; the sickly dead-white colour of his face, with burning red spots on the cheeks; the languor and disease of his manner, ever leaning his head upon his hand, as though he could scarce bear it up; and when he smiled—I might scantly endure to look on him. And above all this, the hollow cough that ever brake the silence, and seemed well-nigh to tear his delicate frame in twain—it was enough to make a strong man weep."

"But tell me all about it!" cried Kate, laying her little hand upon her father's face to make him turn round to her; "I want to know all about it. How old are these great ladies? and what are they like to? and what ware they? Was it blue, or red, or green?"

John turned to her with a smile, and his manner changed again.

"What a little queen art thou!" said he. "Well, I must needs strive to content thy majesty. How old are the ladies that were married? Well, the Lady Jane is the eldest, and she is, I take it, sixteen or seventeen years of age. She looketh something elder than her years, yet rather in her grave, quiet manner than in her face. Then her sister the Lady Katherine is nigh fourteen. And the years of my Lady Katherine Dudley I know not. Item, what are they like unto? That was the next question, methinks."

"Ay," replied Kate. "Which is the nicest?"

"Which thou shouldst think the nicest I cannot tell," said John. "But in so far as mine opinion lieth, the Lady Jane's face liked me the best. Maybe my Lady Kate Dudley should have stricken thy fancy the rather, for she ware a mighty brave blue satin gown, and her face was all smiles and mirth."

"And what ware the other?"

"The Lady Jane and her sister were both donned in white velvet."

"And what colour were their hoods?"

"My Lady Katherine Dudley's amber-colour, set with sapphires; the other ruby velvet, and their jewels rubies."

"And who married them, Jack?" asked Isoult.

"Bishop Ridley."

"Body o' me! who ever looked at Bishop Ridley, I would like to know!" cried Dr Thorpe, coming halting in as though he had hurt himself. "Isoult, if thou canst ever get my left shoe off, I will give thee a gold angelet [half-angel; in other words, a gold crown]. Yonder dolt of a shoemaker hath pinched me like a pasty. But O the brave doings! 'Tis enough to make a man set off to church and be married himself!"

And the old man sat down in a great chair.

"I will strive to earn it, Doctor," said Isoult, laughing, as she sat down on the hearth before him, and took his lame foot in her lap. "Art thou weary, Robin?"

"Not much," said Robin, smiling. "The shoemaker did not pinch me."

"Beshrew him for an owl that he did not!" answered Dr Thorpe, testily. "Thou hadst stood it the better. Eh, child, if thou hadst seen the— mind thy ways, Isoult!—the brave gear, and the jewels, and the gold chains, and the estate [Note 2], and the plumes a-nodding right down— Oh!"

His shoe hurt him in coming off, and he sat rubbing his foot.

"Was Mr Rose there?" said Isoult, when they had finished laughing.

"No," said Robin.

"And Mr Underhill?"

"Ay, that was he, in the bravest and marvellousest velvet gown ever thou sawest in all thy days, and a doublet and slop [very wide breeches introduced from Holland] of satin, and a gold chain thick enough to tie up a dog with. And there, sweet heart, was my most gracious Lord of Northumberland—in a claret velvet gown sewed with gold braid—and for as many inches as could be found of the plain velvet in that gown, I will give any man so many nobles. There was not one! And the bonnet in 's hand!—with a great ruby for a button!—and all set with seed-pearl!—and the jewels in the hilt of's sword!—and great rubies in face of his shoes! The dolt and patch that he is!"

"I do believe Dr Thorpe had beheaded my Lord of Northumberland," said John, laughing, "if that sword had been in his belt in lieu of the other."

"I never saw him afore," replied he, "and I never do desire to see him again. He looketh the rogue [then a stronger word than now] that he is."

"And now, as a physician, what think you of the King?" asked John, sadly.

"I will give him three months to die in," was Dr Thorpe's short and woeful answer.

By the second of July, England knew that the King was dying. No longer could there be any question of the sorrowful truth. He was at Greenwich Palace, Archbishop Cranmer and Bishop Ridley in frequent waiting on him; and summons was sent to his sisters to come quickly. On the 3rd of July, which was Sunday, Dr Ridley preached at the Cross, where he dimly foreshadowed the disposition of the Crown that was coming. All who heard him were much astonished, for not a word had crept out before. It was plain from what he said that the King's sisters were to be passed over (to the no little surprise of all who knew his love for the Princess Elizabeth); but it was not plain who was to come instead; and the rumour ran that it would be the Lady Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, the niece of King Henry, and mother of the Lady Jane Grey.

On the evening of the 6th of July, came a comforting rumour that the King was better, and a hope sprang up that he would yet recover. Those who knew the Duke of Northumberland might have guessed at treachery. In truth, the King died that day; but the Duke kept it secret, until he thought his plans secure for the Lady Jane's succession.

On the morning of the 10th of July, came Dr Thorpe in great haste, from the barber's.

"Isoult!" cried he, "tie thine hood and bring the childre!"

"What is now to do?" said she to herself; but she tied on her hood, and brought down the children with her.

"Where be Jack and Robin?" asked the old man.

"They went forth to Westminster together, half an hour gone," said Isoult.

"They must shift for themselves, then," said he. "Come away."

"But whither, Doctor?" she wished to know.

"Down to the river side by Saint Katherine's, with all the haste that may be," answered he. "Isoult, the King is dead, and the Lady Jane Dudley proclaimed Queen of England, and she cometh apace from Shene to the Tower. We may chance to see her land, if we lose no time."

"The King dead!"

Isoult said no more, but away they ran down the street, till they reached Saint Katherine by the Tower. A crowd of people were already there. They took up their places by the church, whence they could see the river; and they had not been there two minutes, ere they heard a sound of cheering from the watermen below; and presently the royal barge of England glided into sight. At the bow played the standard of the realm; and about the cloth of estate were several ladies and gentlemen, all clad in mourning, surrounding a lady who sat under the canopy. This was all that could be seen till the barge stopped at the Tower-stairs. Then from it (a blue cloth being first laid to the gate) came the Duke of Northumberland, robed in a long, black gown trimmed with fox, leading a fair, slender girl also in mourning, and Frances, Duchess of Suffolk [Note 3], bore her train. After them came the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Arundel, a slim comely youth unknown to the crowd, and Lord Grey de Wilton. And the minute after, from the crowd thronging the postern, Mr Ive, the High Constable (Mr Underhill's friend and neighbour at the Lime Hurst), made his way to our little group.

"Ah! how do you?" said he. "You are in fair time to see our new Queen."

"I pray you, Mr Ive," said Isoult, "is yonder damsel her Highness, that my Lord's Grace of Northumberland hath by the hand?"

"Even so," replied he; "and yonder young gentleman that followeth is her husband, the Lord Guilford Dudley."

Very earnestly they looked then on the face of their new Sovereign. A soft, gentle face, fair and clear complexion, brown hair, and meek, thoughtful brown eyes; and eyes that had shed tears but very lately. But Northumberland bore himself proudly, as though he felt himself a King already. And very few voices said "God save Queen Jane!" Isoult did hear a few, but few they were.

In the evening, throughout the City, and without the gates, was the new Queen proclaimed. It was now known that the King had died on the Thursday previous, and that Northumberland had kept the matter secret, until he thought Jane's succession ensured. And by letters patent, dated the 21st of June, King Edward had bequeathed the realm to the heirs-male of his cousin the Lady Frances, Duchess of Suffolk; and should she have no heirs-male before his death, the reversion was to pass to her eldest daughter, the Lady Jane Dudley, now Queen; and for lack of her issue, to her cousin Lady Margaret Clifford. The sisters of Jane were passed over, and also the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth, sisters of the late King.

All the Queen's officers, and her Council, were sworn to serve her on the 9th of July; and troops were sent to take the Lady Mary, who had already been proclaimed Queen at Kenninghall in Norfolk.

Every body was glad to see Mr Rose come in that evening.

"Well!" said he, "we are well into a new reign. Thank God for a Protestant Prince!"

"There Underhill shall run a tilt with you," said John, smiling.

"My friend, had the Lady Mary not been exempted of the King her brother, I had bowed to her sceptre," said Mr Rose. "But she is lawfully put forth; and Queen Jane as lawfully proclaimed."

"Who talks treason here?" cried Mr Underhill's voice behind, which all dreaded to hear. "What say you—'God save Queen Jane?' I say, God save Queen Mary! I serve not my Lord of Northumberland, for all the Papists nick [give me the nick-name] me his spy! I have not proclaimed King John—whereof, as all men do know, Queen Jane is but the feminine. I am a servant of the Queen's Majesty that reigneth by right, and that Queen is Mary. God defend the right, as assuredly He will!"

Mr Rose looked quietly on him.

"You may live to forethink [regret] the setting of her up, if it were so," was all he said.

"I may live to be sorry she was ever born," answered Mr Underhill. "I know that, Father Rose! But right is right, and wrong is wrong; and I say this is a wrong, and I stand forth for the right."

"God's will is the right," gently answered Mr Rose. "Let us not fight against God."

"And be you ware you do not!" cried Mr Underhill in his ringing voice. "How look you to know what His will is herein?"

"We shall all know that ere it be long," said Mr Rose, sadly.

On the 13th of July [exact date unrecorded] was born Guilford Underhill, Mr Underhill's eldest son. He had already five daughters. The 19th was appointed for christening the child, and the sponsors were the Queen (that is to say, Lady Jane), her father the Duke of Suffolk, and the Earl of Pembroke. John Avery was greatly amused that Mr Underhill should believe the Lady Jane had no right to be Queen, and yet, because she was Queen, would have her his child's sponsor. It was an instance of the consistent inconsistency inherent in human nature.

The 14th of July was a day of contrary rumours, and great trouble, and running to and fro in the streets of the city. From all sides news poured in that the Lady Mary was proclaimed Queen—at Kenninghall, and Framlingham, and Norwich, and in all the eastern parts. The Council would have sent the Duke of Suffolk against her; but Lady Jane his daughter entreated with tears that he might remain with her; and they then sent the Duke of Northumberland. He and Lord Grey de Wilton (who went unwillingly, being of Mr Underhill's way of thinking) set forth on the 14th, with six hundred men. That evening came news that Mary was proclaimed in Buckinghamshire.

On the 16th, at seven o'clock at night, the gates of the Tower were suddenly locked, and the keys carried to Lady Jane. This was to secure the Lord Treasurer, (the Marquis of Winchester), who was considered of doubtful faith, and proved to be as he was considered.

As the party reached Saint Katherine's on their way to the christening, the Lords of the Council were just riding out of the western gate of the Tower. These were the Earls of Pembroke, Shrewsbury, and Arundel, the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, the Lord Mayor, and sundry knights. The Duke of Suffolk was left behind. The truth was, that he would have been in the way. The Council said that it was going to give audience to the French Ambassador; but it was really bound on a very different errand. Lady Throgmorton was the Queen's deputy at the christening, and named the child Guilford.

"Named for a Dudley!" whispered the irrepressible Dr Thorpe to Isoult. "He will not thrive, take my word for it—unless he turn out a rascal."

Before the ceremony was ended, a great noise was heard in the City: shouting, singing, and roaring all together. The baptism over, Lady Throgmorton returned into the Tower; and the rest of the party went on to the Lamb, where they were all going to pass the afternoon. Mistress Helen Ive [a fictitious person], the High Constable's daughter, carried the baby, and accompanied Isoult; but Mr Ive said he would go up to Aldgate, and see what all the tumult had been; so away he went, while the others rested and talked, and ate ale-brew [ale and bread, sometimes called aleberry] and spiced cake; and Kate was wonderfully pleased with the baby. All at once, as they sat thus, Mr Ive returned, his face showing that he brought strange tidings.

"They have proclaimed Queen Mary!" he cried breathlessly.

"Who have?" asked Mr Underhill, turning round.

"The Lords of the Council," answered he.

"Robin Hood's tales!" cried Mr Underhill.

"'Tis truth," responded Mr Ive.

"The Council of Queen Jane to proclaim Queen Mary!" said Mr Underhill, scornfully. "Ive, you are mad as a March hare."

"'Bate me an ace, quoth Bolton,'" said Dr Thorpe, shrugging his shoulders.

"Bate your aces, and catch your March hares," answered Mr Ive, who took all this banter very pleasantly; "but this is truth that I do tell you. An hour gone, we being in the church, when we heard that mighty bruit from the City, was Queen Mary proclaimed in Cheapside by the Council. Their audience to the French King's Ambassador was but a feint, to get well and all together out of the Tower. And when they came to the Chepe, they called an halt; and my Lord of Arundel, stepping forwards, did there, in the hearing of all the people, proclaim—'Mary, by the grace of God, of England, France, and Ireland, Queen'—and so forth. And no sooner said than every man in the street flung up his cap, and the people cheered as they had gone mad for joy. The Earl of Pembroke threw down in the street his cap full of angelets."

"My word on't, but I would Walter had been there, to run about and gather them up!" said Dr Thorpe. "We might have gleaned that comfort thence, at least."

"And at the windows of many houses in the City," continued Mr Ive, "money was thrown out; and bonfires all along the Chepe and Poultry be a-lighting, and at all the gates, and in Cornhill, and Fleet Street, and Aldersgate Street, and I know not where else; and (say they) such shouting, crying, and singing of the people, ringing of bells, playing of organs, tables of meal and drink setting forth in every street; and such racket and bruit, as a man might scantly hear his own voice. And after the proclamation in Cheapside, all the Council rade to Poules, and there was Te Deum to be sung at evensong."

"But who be 'they'?" cried Mr Underhill. "Who told you all this jolly tale?"

"The keeper of Aldgate, and your friend Mr Newman, and George Ferris, and divers other. I gat not all from one man."

"Newman and Ferris! Then it is true," murmured Mr Underhill, very gravely.

It was true. Before night they knew all concerning this deed of treachery.

And—last and worst of all—no sooner did the Duke of Suffolk, within the Tower, hear that the Council had proclaimed Queen Mary without, than out he came upon the hill, and saying "he was but one man, and would not withstand all the Council," proclaimed Queen Mary on Tower Hill, to the ruin of his own daughter: and then went into London, leaving poor Lady Jane almost alone in the Tower,—for only Lord Guilford, and the Duchess of Northumberland, and Lady Throgmorton and her husband Sir Nicholas, and Sir John Bridges, were left with her. And when Lady Throgmorton returned from Saint Katherine's to the Tower, she found the cloth of estate already taken down, and all changed; and when she would have quitted the Tower again, she was not permitted to do so.

That evening, there was a gathering at the Lamb. Mr Underhill stayed to rejoice; Mr Rose came to mourn; Philippa Basset came to rail; and Mr Holland came to pacify them. And no very soft nor sweet words were bestowed on Lord Sussex by Mr Holland (whose words were not all peace); nor on Lord Arundel by Mr Rose; nor on Lord Grey by Mr Underhill; nor on the Duke of Suffolk by any body; nor on any body by Philippa. Only to one no hard words were given by any; and that was the Lady Jane, whom all united to excuse and pity. But all agreed in calling Lord Arundel a traitor, and Suffolk a man too weak and pitiful to be blamed.

All hope of the Lady Jane's success was now gone. The Duke of Northumberland himself proclaimed Queen Mary when he discovered it; but notwithstanding this feeble attempt to curry favour, on the 22nd he was apprehended at Cambridge. Lord Grey de Wilton and others who submitted themselves early were pardoned. Lady Jane, Lord Guilford, and those with them, were kept prisoners in the Tower.

Towards the end of July, Isoult and Esther were coming along the riverside by the Tower, when they saw a great crowd shouting and running towards them. Neither John nor Robin being with them, Isoult was rather frightened, and turned aside into the porch of Saint Katherine's for safety. But when they came nearer, she saw that here were the prisoners borne under guard to the Tower. First rode the traitor Earl of Arundel, who had them in his guard; and had he received his deserts, he would have been among them. And after him, riding upon horses, their bridles tied to those of the guards, came the Duke of Northumberland, his sons, the Earl of Warwick, Lord Ambrose, and Lord Henry Dudley; Lord Huntingdon, Lord Hastings, Sir John Gates, and his brother Sir Henry, Sir Andrew Dudley (brother to the Duke), and Dr Sands, Chancellor of Cambridge. But when Isoult saw the face of the last prisoner, she was unspeakably startled. Esther asked if she were ill; "for (said she), you look ever so white and faint!" It was no wonder, when she looked up into the unforgotten face of Sir Thomas Palmer.

Thirteen years had passed since she saw him; but Isoult knew him in a moment. All the old Calais memories came flashing back on her like an overwhelming flood, drowning the newer evil he had done, as she saw this man, who had persecuted the saints of God, who had done the Duke of Somerset to death, who had been one of the four destroyers of her beloved master—led to his prison and to his suffering in turn.

Sir Thomas looked at Isoult as he passed, seeing her eyes fixed on him; but it was the look of a stranger to a stranger.

The storm broke now. Few days passed unmarked by fresh arrests. The phrase "the Queen" had almost insensibly passed from Jane to Mary. But for a little while yet the crisis was political, not religious. When the danger was over, and before Mary reached her metropolis, the scene was shifted, and the first Protestant arrest took place. And so sudden and unexpected was the blow, that it fell upon the Gospellers like a thunderbolt. Thirty hours had barely elapsed since her meeting with Sir Thomas Palmer, when Isoult, coming down into the parlour, heard her husband's voice say sorrowfully—"Ay, this is the beginning of sorrows."

"Is there any more news?" cried Isoult, fearfully; for fresh news then meant bad news.

"The worst we have had yet," he said; "the Bishop of London is committed to the Tower."

"And that all suddenly, with scantly a minute's warning," added Dr Thorpe.

"Woe worth the day!" she wailed. "Ay, thou mayest say so," answered he. "God grant this be not the first step of a longer and dreader persecution than we have yet known."

On Friday the Duke of Suffolk was brought to the Tower, where his hapless daughter remained a prisoner. But on the Monday following, Suffolk was released.

"To ease the Tower dungeons, which must now be choke-full," suggested Dr Thorpe; "or it may be the Queen thought him a sely [harmless, simple] fellow, not worth the turning of an axe edge."

The Queen's grand entry into London took place on the 3rd of August. There was no need for any in the Minories to go far to see her, for she came to them, riding down Shoreditch and in at Aldgate. She was preceded by a guard of seven hundred and forty "velvet coats;" then rode that "honourable man" my Lord of Arundel, bearing in his hand the sword of state; then (after reaching Aldgate) the Lord Mayor; then the Queen, royally arrayed, riding by herself on a richly-caparisoned barb, Sir Anthony Browne bearing up her train. What were the thoughts of that long-persecuted woman, now in her turn to become a persecutor? Then followed her sister, the Lady Elizabeth. What, too, were her thoughts? After the royal sisters rode Elizabeth Stafford, wife of the imprisoned Duke of Norfolk, and Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter, mother of the imprisoned Edward Courtenay. Ladies and gentlemen followed to the number of a hundred and eighty. Lastly came the guard, with a crowd of men from Northampton, Buckingham, and Oxford shires, all in armour, and the peers' servants. The number of horsemen, we are assured, was about ten thousand.

And when the Queen came to the Tower, there, beside the gate, kneeling upon the Tower green, were the old prisoners of her father and brother, the old Duke of Norfolk, and Dr Stephen Gardiner, and the Duchess of Somerset, and the young Lord Courtenay, who had scarcely ever been out of the Tower in his life. They, kneeling there, saluted her; and no sooner had the Queen alighted, than she went to them and kissed them, and said, "These are my prisoners."

The time-serving Earl of Pembroke had been ordered to wait upon the Queen, but was too terrified to obey. He felt himself too deeply compromised for pardon. One point, however, he was careful not to neglect. His son, Lord Herbert, was divorced in all haste and fear from Lady Katherine Grey, the hapless sister of the "nine days' Queen."

On Saturday night, Mr Underhill walked into the Lamb, and tacitly asked himself to supper. He was in feverish delight.

"The good cause hath triumphed! and Queen Mary being known to be of merciful complexion, I cast no doubt all shall be spared that can be."

Deluded man! but he was quickly to be undeceived in a very personal manner.

"But meantime," responded John Avery, "some are being spared that should not be—all them that have troubled the realm in King Edward's time, or yet sooner. Bishop Day is delivered; and Bishop Bonner not only delivered, but restored to his see, and shall henceforth be Bishop of London in the stead of Dr Ridley. And what shall become of that our good Bishop no man knoweth. Moreover, Bishop Tunstal is delivered out of prison; and Dr Gardiner (woe worth the day!) was this morrow sworn of the Council. Howso merciful be the Queen, the Council shall be little that way inclined, if they have him amongst them."

It was not yet dinner-time on the following morning, when Barbara came up-stairs to tell her mistress that Mrs Helen Ive wished to see her. Her first words were ominous.

"Mrs Avery, I come from the Lime Hurst, with rare ill tidings."

"Alack!" said Isoult. "Is Mistress Underhill worser? or the little babe sick?"

"Neither," said she; "but Mr Underhill is in Newgate."

"Mr Underhill!" cried Isoult. "For what cause?"

"God knoweth, and they that have him," said she; "for the rest, I wis not whether he know himself. But he was taken in the midst of the night, being ten of the clock, and after long trial by the Council, is now sent unto Newgate. The Sheriff of Middlesex come unto my father's house thus late, and brake the matter to my father, whom he desired to go with him, as being Mr Underhill's very friend; and my father did entreat him to leave him go and fetch his prisoner, for frightening of Mrs Underhill in her weakness. So my father, followed of the Sheriff and his men bearing bills and glaives, knocked on the door, and there came one to the door, unto whom he desired that he should ask Mr Underhill to come out. But upon this he heard Mr Underhill's voice, calling to him to go within. So he went within, and found Mr Underhill in his bed; who demanding of him in his merry fashion what he did breaking into a man's house at that hour of the night, my father answered him that the Sheriff, and with him a great company were come to fetch him. Upon which Mr Underhill rose, and made him ready; and willing not that Mistress Underhill should know anything of the matter, he would not go into her chamber for any other gear, but cast about him such as he had there, which was a brave satin gown that he had worn the even afore."

"Ay," said Isoult, "a tawny satin night-gown [evening costume] laced with green; he had it here at supper."

"Well," pursued Helen, "so out came he to the Sheriff, and demanded what he would. 'Sir,' said he, 'I have commandment from the Council to apprehend you, and forthwith to bring you unto them.'—'Why,' answers Mr Underhill, 'it is now ten of the clock in the night; you cannot now carry me unto them.'—'No, Sir,' said he; 'ye shall go with me to my house to London, where ye shall have a bed; and to-morrow I shall bring you unto them at the Tower.'—'In the Name of God!' [Note 4] quoth Mr Underhill; and so went with the Sheriff. 'Know you the cause?' saith he also; who [the Sheriff] answered that he knew of none. Then said Mr Underhill, 'This needed not; any one messenger might have fetched me unto them.' So away went they, and my father turned home. And this morning went my father early unto the Tower, where the Council were sitting, and took his place at the gate, where was a great throng of people, that he might hear what should befall. It was a mighty long time ere Mr Underhill came forth; but at long last out came he, led betwixt two of the guard, and my father (with a great throng) followed to Mr Garret's house, the Sheriff, in the Stock Market. There they took Mr Underhill in, and after a while, to my father's great easement, came forth without him. Then, after some time, came forth Mr Underhill again, with two of the Sheriff's men; but they had no bills with them, nor they led him not, but followed a pretty way behind. So he coming into the street, my father, seeing him have such liberty, and such distance between him and the officers, he stepped before them, and so went talking with him through Cheapside. And Mr Underhill told him that my Lord of Sussex would have ordered him to the Fleet, and Sir Richard Southwell cried out to have him to the Marshalsea: but neither should content Sir John Gage nor Secretary Bourne, and they made great ado that he were sent to Newgate, and prevailed. Arrived thither, Mr Underhill was delivered of the officers to Alisaunder the keeper [Note 5], who unlocked a door, and bade him go up-stairs into the hall. My father would not yet leave him, but went up with him, and there they sat down and had some talk one with the other. And Mr Underhill did require my father not to let Mrs Underhill know that he was sent to Newgate, but to the Counter, until such time as she were near her churching, and better to abide ill news; and that she should send him his night-gown, his Bible, and his lute. So my father took his leave; and meeting me at Aldgate on his way home, desired me to turn aside hither and tell you thereof; and to ask you that you would come and visit Mrs Underhill in her trouble, if it might stand with your conveniency."

"That will I, assuredly," said Isoult; "and it shall be the very first thing I do on the morrow."

Isoult fulfilled her promise. She rode to the Lime Hurst, with Tom as escort; and found Mrs Underhill lying on the day-bed [the predecessor of the sofa], with Helen Ive sitting by her; while Anne, her eldest girl, was nursing her baby brother, and looked very much gratified to be trusted with him. Mrs Underhill burst into tears the moment her visitor approached. Taking the seat which Helen vacated for her, Isoult endeavoured to cheer her invalid friend. When she was able to speak, Mrs Underhill was found very resolute.

"So soon as ever my strength shall serve," she said, "I will hie me to the Lords of the Council, to entreat them for Ned's deliverance; and methinks my Lord of Bedford at the least shall hear me, for the good hap that we had to recover his son. And I will moreover get help of Jack Throgmorton, Master of the Quest, that is Ned's countryman and kinsman."

"But, dear heart," cried Isoult, "you are not strong enough to bear so weary a burden."

"I will be strong enough!" she answered, determinately. "And to that end I do mean to be churched this next Sunday. But to tell you the very truth, Mrs Avery, I do fear this shall not be all. Men do say Mr Rose shall be deprived ere many days; and it may be, set in ward likewise. Ah, well-a-day I we have need to take heed to our ways. My way lieth toward the Counter; if I might be there with Ned, I would not much lay to heart for what cause. Methinks when they take a man, they should seize both halves of him."

Isoult smiled, but made no reply.

"And 'tis whispered about," she pursued, "that my Lord Archbishop should forsake the Gospel, and be again a Lutheran, if not a Papist; and that the mass shall be again set up; and that proclamation shall be made to put forth from their cures all married priests. Mrs Avery, have a care of your Robin, that he either receive not orders, or wed not. When looked you for his being a priest?"

"Why," said Isoult, "he had been ordained of Bishop Ridley this next Rogation-tide; but now I know not what shall fall, for no Popish Bishop will admit him, nor would we ask it if he would so do. May be, if Mr Rose would speak with him (Robin being Cornwall-born), Bishop Coverdale should grant him, an' he knew the case."

"Bishop Coverdale, and Mr Rose to boot," said she, "shall shortly have enough to do to see to themselves. Mrs Rose is sorely distressed touching the forbiddance of wedded priests, which 'tis thought shall shortly be had. And 'twill be no gain to be Mr Rose his son when the storm come. An' I were you and Mr Avery, I would put him off both his orders and his wedding."

"We have no right over him, Mrs Underhill," said Isoult.

"No right!" answered she. "Doth not every man that knoweth you and him know that you have but to whisper, and he shall run at your bidding? Mrs Avery, if you asked that lad for his head, I do very nigh believe he should cut it off for you."

"I must talk with Jack of this matter," responded Isoult, thoughtfully.

So, when she left the Lime Hurst, she came home to dinner, and after dinner rode on to West Ham. In the parlour there she found Thekla at her spinning; but Mrs Rose (a most unwonted thing for her), sat by the casement idle, with her hands lying before her.

"Hear you Mr Underhill is in prison?" were her first words.

"Ay," said Isoult; "and that you, dear friend, are sore disquieted, for the which cause I come."

"Disquieted!" she answered, the tears springing to her eyes. "Is it like I shall be quiet? How know I who shall be in prison to-morrow? They may burn mine husband and banish me before a month. And what is to come of Thekla?"

"Dear mother," said Thekla, gently, "they will not put God in prison."

"They may put there every servant that He hath," said she, bitterly.

"I think you know, dear heart," replied Isoult, "that so long as we have any shelter to offer unto her, Thekla shall not be without one."

"But how long may be that?" she answered; and, burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing.

Isoult hardly knew what to say, but she heard Mr Rose's step, and awaited his coming. He greeted her kindly, and then turning at once to his wife, said, "Sweet heart, why weepest thou?"

"Mrs Rose feareth we may all be prisoned or execute afore a month be over," said Isoult, for Mrs Rose was sobbing too heartily to speak.

"Truth," he answered. "What then?"

"What then?" she cried through her tears. "Why, Tom, art thou mad? 'What then,' to such matter as the breaking of our hearts and the burning of our bodies? 'What then!'"

"Then," said he, gently, "thou art not ready (as Paul was) 'not only to be bound, but also to die' for the Lord Jesus? Is it so, my Marguerite?"

"I know not what I were ready to do myself," she said, "but I am not ready to see thee nor Thekla to do so."

"Well, sweet heart," said he, "methinks I am ready. Ready—to be confessed before the angels of God, and the Father which is in Heaven: ready—to wear a martyr crown before all the world: ready—to reign with Christ a thousand years! Is that matter to be wept for, Marguerite?"

"There is something else to come first," she said, shaking her head.

"There is so," replied he. "To confess Christ, ere He confess us: to be envied of angels, that have no such means of showing forth His glory: to give a very little thing for the Redeemer who gave all He is, and all He hath, for us. Is that, also, matter for tears?"

"Ah, Tom!" said she, smiling through her tears, "thou turnest it all to the contrary. But thou knowest what I mean."

"The brighter and better way," he answered. "But I do know thy meaning, dear heart. And in truth, it is hard, and the flesh is weak. But remember, our Lord knoweth that as well as we. He hath not forgotten the days of His flesh, when He offered up prayer, with strong crying and tears, to Him that was able to save Him from death; though there were one thing (and that the worst thing) in His sorrow, that there can never be in ours. The way may be rough and stony—but, mind thou, it is only very short."

"When it may last for all the life, Tom! Hard prison, and scant fare, and loneliness, and bitter mourning! Methinks the death were better than that."

"Very short, still," repeated he, "to the endless days of eternity. The days of the journey be few indeed, compared with the number of those to be spent in the Father's House. And, sweet heart, even should we be forced to go that journey apart, we will strive to look forward to the glad meeting in the Home."

"Apart!" she echoed drearily, and her tears came streaming back. "O Tom, Tom!"

"I meant not to make thee weep again," he said, tenderly; "and yet there is no good in shutting our eyes on a sorrow that must come, though there be little use in grieving over such as may never come. It is not yet come; and when it so doth, it is only a little while. Only a little while, my Marguerite! 'In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world!'"

Thekla ceased her spinning, and coming forward to her mother, she passed her arm round her, and kissed her brow.

"Mother!" she said, sweetly, "it may be God will let us go to Him together. Need we mourn for the night ere it be dark! It will be so sweet to go to Him. Will it not help us to bear almost any thing, to know that presently thereafter we shall see Christ, and be with Him for ever?"

Mrs Rose was crying more quietly now, and Isoult rose to depart. Mr Rose said he would help her to mount, and she fancied that he wished to speak with her in private. And so she found it; for no sooner had he shut the door, than he said—

"Mrs Avery, what do you touching Robin's orders?"

Isoult replied as she had done to Mrs Underhill, and added that she meant to talk the matter over with John, when she could do so quietly. "But, Mr Rose," she said, "your three years be already gone."

"Friend," he answered, his lip quivering, "had I made it three hundred years, maybe it had been the better."

"I pray you say not that you will not give her unto him!" cried Isoult— for she guessed what that would be to Robin, and perchance to Thekla.

"I will say no such thing," he answered. "It should seem that Robin's orders can now scarce be had; and if it were so, I tell you the truth, mine heart were the lighter. Thekla must choose for herself. She is now of ripe age to know what is for and against the same; and if she would have rather Robin and what may hap than to leave both, I will not gainsay her choice. But if she seeketh mine avisement—"

"You will say her nay?" asked Isoult, fearfully, as he hesitated.

"Can I say any thing else?" answered Mr Rose in a low voice. "Were it worse for Thekla to be let from wedding him, or to be roughly parted from him ere they had been wed a year—perchance a month? If Robin should choose not to endeavour himself for the priesthood, then of force is there no such difficulty. But can I look forward to the parting that must ere long come between my Marguerite and me, and lightly choose the same doom for our child?"

Mr Rose's voice fell, and his face changed so painfully that the listener could scarcely bear to see it.

"Think you that must come?" she said in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"It must come, if the Queen continue as she hath begun," answered he, in a low voice. "It may not be for long, if the Lord only try us, to humble us, and to prove us, whether we will keep His commandments or no: it may be for all this life. Beyond this life, it cannot be. The keys of Heaven and earth are in the hands of Jesus Christ, not in those of Mary Tudor!"

No more was said for that time. The friends clasped hands and parted.

But when Isoult and John had their quiet talk together, she found that he had already been thinking on the subject; and had conversed with Robin.

"I did somewhat marvel," she admitted, "seeing the three years for the which Mr Rose did covenant were run out in June, that Robin made no motion thereunto. But verily I did think he should speak the first."

"He hath spoken, dear heart," said John, "and I did entreat him to await a season the upshot of this matter, till we should see who should succeed the King, and what manner of government we were like to fall under. And I pressed him with much of the same reasoning that (as I hear) Mr Rose hath given thee."

"And what saith he touching his priesthood?"

"I think he hardly knew what to say."

When all else had gone to bed, John and Isoult took Robin aside, and John told him what Mr Rose had said. Robin's eyes filled with tears.

"Then," said he, "it comes to this; I must either give up mine orders, or give up—"

He uttered not, nor did they need, the name of Thekla Rose.

"But one other point, Robin, leave not out of thine account," said John. "It may be thou canst not receive orders."

"Why, then," replied he, "if I cannot, I cannot. But when shall I know that I cannot?"

"When all the Protestant Bishops are in prison, I take it," said John, smiling.

"Were it not better, Robin," suggested Isoult, "to fix thee a time, not unreasonable distant, whereat, if thou mayest not hap to receive orders afore, thou shalt resign that expectation, and be free to wed?"

"Good and wise counsel!" cried John. "Thou hast hit the nail on the head. Thinkest not so, Robin?"

Robin sat silent for a moment. Then he said,—"Ay—if Mr Rose agree thereto."

"We will ask him that," answered John, "so soon as we may."

On the 11th of August, to borrow the expression of the Gospellers, the abominable thing was once more set up in England. For the first time for six years, an old priest sang the Latin mass in Saint Bartholomew's Church, to the awakening of such burning indignation on the part of his hearers, that he was compelled to escape for his life by a side door.

The application to Mr Rose was made on the Sunday evening following, when John and Isoult, with Robin, rode over to the evening service at West Ham. Mr Rose's sermon was a very solemn one, on the text, "I am now ready to be offered."

Ready to be offered! how many of the Gospellers needed to be so, in that autumn of 1553!

After the sermon, they waited for Mr Rose, and he walked with them for one or two miles on their way home. Robin led the horses a short distance behind them. Mr Rose was quite satisfied with Isoult's proposal to fix a time beyond which Robin should resign the hope of entering the ministry, and indeed seemed relieved by the suggestion. At his request, Robin was waited for, and when he came up with them, Mr Rose asked him what was the reason of his unwillingness to resign the hope of receiving holy orders.

Robin answered, that "having offered himself and his service unto God, he counted it not right to withdraw the same, unless it should be plain that this was not the way wherein God would have him to serve."

And Mr Rose's reply was,—"Then, Robin, wouldst thou give up rather Thekla than thine orders?"

"It were well-nigh giving up my life; yet I would do as God will have me," said Robin, softly.

Mr Rose grasped his hand, and called him a brave lad, adding that "if God so would, he would be right glad of such a son."

This speech made the tears no further from Robin's eyes, but he smiled and thanked him. And he continued,—"Mr Rose, I would have you to know that I do desire only to know and do what is God's will for me. If He will make me His minister, I will be thankful for so great an honour; for I do account the service of God higher than the dominion over men. Yet, if I can serve Him better as a door-porter or a scullion, I would have Him do His will with me."

"Ah Robin, God bless thee!" answered Mr Rose, earnestly. "Thou hast learned a lesson which many a scholar of threescore and ten can yet hardly spell."

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The two ladies first named were second cousins of the King, and stood in the line of the succession. The details here given are almost entirely fictitious (except such as concern Edward himself), for little is really known beyond the time, the place, and the King's presence.

Note 2. The canopy over the throne was called the cloth of estate, often abbreviated into the estate.

Note 3. The Duchess Frances appears to have played a quiescent part in this drama, so soon to turn into tragedy. Otherwise she (from whom alone the title was derived) would scarcely have borne so meekly the train of her own daughter.

Note 4. This must not be mistaken for swearing. It was an expression used in the most reverential manner, and equivalent to "God's will be done."

Note 5. A man infamous for his cruelty, especially to the Protestant prisoners.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE TEMPEST THAT FOLLOWED.

"O yet, in scorn of mean relief, Let Sorrow bear her heavenly fruit! Better the wildest hour of grief Than the low pastime of the brute! Better to weep, for He wept too, Than laugh as every fool can do."

Hon. Robert Lytton.

"Heard you the news, friends?" asked Mr Holland, coming into the Lamb, on the evening of the 14th of August.

"News!" cried Dr Thorpe. "I am aweary of the news. There is news every day. My Lord A. to the Tower, and my Lord B. delivered thence; and my Lord C. to the Marshalsea; and my Lord D. to the Fleet; and my Lord E., that yesterday carried the sword afore the Queen, to-day hath his head struck off; and my Lord F., that was condemned to die yestereven, shall bear the Queen's sword this morrow. Pshaw! I am tired of it. 'Tis a game of tables [backgammon], with players that have no skill, and care for nought saving to rattle the dice."

Mr Holland laughed a moment, but immediately grew grave.

"But heard you my news?" said he. "Do you know Father Rose is deprived?"

All cried out together. They had looked for this indeed, but not now. Six months thence, when the Protestant Bishops were all sequestered, and the Prebendaries in the Marshalsea, Bishop Gardiner might stoop to lesser game; but that one of the very first blows should be struck at Mr Rose, this they had not expected. It showed how formidable an enemy he was considered.

"Deprived!" cried all the voices together.

"Ay, 'tis too true," said Mr Holland. "As a preacher, we shall hear his voice no more."

"The lambs are like to fare ill," growled Dr Thorpe, "when all the great wolves be let forth in a pack."

"Ah, mine old friend!" answered John, "not many weeks gone, you said of my Lord of Northumberland, 'Will none put this companion in the Tower?' Methinks so many henceforward will scarce be over, ere you may say the like with tears of Stephen Gardiner. The fox is in the Tower; but the wolf is out."

"You speak but truth," said Mr Holland. "And now, my masters, after mine ill news, I fear you will scarcely take it well of me to bid you to a wedding; yet for that came I hither."

"Is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?" groaned Dr Thorpe.

"I think it is," answered Mr Holland, stoutly. "The more disease [discomfort] a man hath abroad, the more comfort he lacketh at home."

"But who is to be married?" asked John.

"I am," answered Mr Holland. "Have you aught against it?"

"You!" cried Avery, in a voice of astonishment, which Mr Holland understood to imply the reverse of flattery.

"Upon my word, you are no losenger!" [flatterer] saith he. "Have I two heads, or four legs, that you think no maid should have me? or is my temper so hot that you count I shall lead her a dog's life? or what see you in me, body or soul, to make you cry out in that fashion?"

"Nay, man," replied John, laughing, "thou art a proper man enough, and as tall of thy hands as any in Aldersgate; and for thy temper, a dove were crabbed in comparison. I did but think thou wert wedded to thy cloths and thy napery."

"You thought I took counsel of velvet, and solaced myself with broidery!" laughed Mr Holland. "Nay, friend; when I take a wife, I will not wed a piece of Lincoln green."

"And who, pray you, is the bride?"

"Why, Avery, I had thought you should have guessed that without asking. Who should it be, but mine old and true friend, Bessy Lake?"

"Then I give you joy," said John, "for you have chosen well."

Mr Holland's wedding took place at the Church of Saint Giles Cripplegate, in August [it was in the first year of Queen Mary; exact date unknown]. Bessy Lake, the bride, proved a very gentle, amiable-looking woman, not pretty, but not unpleasing, and by at least ten years the senior of her bridegroom. After the ceremony, the wedding party repaired to Mr Holland's house. Mr Rose was present, with his wife and Thekla; and Mr Ferris; and Mr Ive and Helen, who brought Mrs Underhill's three elder little girls, Anne, Christian, and Eleanor. Augustine Bernher did not appear until after dinner. Mrs Rose and Isoult had a little quiet conversation; the former was still looking forward to further troubles, and plainly thought Mr Holland was courting sorrow.

"But thank God he is not a priest!" she said; and the tears rose to her eyes.

Meanwhile, John and Mr Rose were engaged in their private discourse. It was settled between them that the same day, two years later—August 20th, 1555—should be the date fixed, before which, if Robin should not have been ordained, he should give up the expectation of it, and marry Thekla. Mr Holland, being taken into confidence, not only expressed his sense of the wisdom of this arrangement, but at once offered, if Robin wished it, to receive him without premium. This part of the subject, however, was left for future decision.

Helen Ive brought word from Mrs Underhill, that Mr Throgmorton had readily promised to intercede for his cousin, as soon as he found a satisfactory opportunity; which meant, when certain members of the Council, adverse to Underhill, should be absent.

The persecution had begun in good earnest now. The imprisonment of Bishop Ridley and Mr Underhill, and the deprivation of Mr Rose, were only the beginning of sorrows. On the 16th of August, Mr John Bradford of Manchester was sent to the Tower; and Mr Prebendary Rogers confined to his own house, nor allowed to speak with any person out of it. And on Friday and Saturday, the 18th and 19th, were condemned to death in the high court at Westminster, the great Duke of Northumberland, who so many years had been all but a king in England; and the Marquis of Northampton, and the Earl of Warwick (son of the Duke), and Sir Andrew Dudley, the Duke's brother, and Sir Thomas Palmer. The judges were the Lord Treasurer, and the old Duke of Norfolk, the last only just released from the Tower, where he had been a prisoner seven years.

"God's mill grindeth slowly, but it grindeth small." He sitteth at the disposing of the lots—there is no blind chance, for Him: and it was the Lord who had these sinners in derision, who sat above the water-floods, and stilled the raging of the people.

And if God's earthly judgments, that come now and then, be so terrific, what shall be that last judgment of His Great White Throne, when every man shall receive the things done in the body?

The great traitors—Northumberland and Palmer—the lesser traitor, Northampton,—and the innocent Warwick, were tried and sentenced to death. On the following morning, mass was sung in the Tower; and the Duke, the Marquis of Northampton, Sir Andrew Dudley, Sir Harry Gates, and Sir Thomas Palmer, received the sacrament in one kind only. Then the Duke, turning to those present (who were many) said "he had been seduced these sixteen years by the false and erroneous doctrine of the new preachers (namely, the Gospel), but he was now assured and did believe that the Sacrament there present was our Saviour and Redeemer, Jesus Christ." Then he knelt down and asked of all men forgiveness, and said he forgave all men. The Duke of Somerset's sons were standing by (who had something to forgive that miserable sinner), and the Lady Jane saw the Duke pass by to the chapel from her window.

"Lo' you now!" said John, "this was the chosen head of the Lutheran party!"

"He was never mine," replied Dr Thorpe.

"How long is it sithence you were a Lutheran?" answered he.

"Go thy ways, Jack!" was all Dr Thorpe would say.

In the evening Mr Ive came in; who said he had been to Newgate to visit his friend, Mr Underhill.

"And poor Underhill," said he, "is fallen sick of a burning ague in that loathsome gaol. He doth account the cause to be the evil savours and the unquietness of the lodging; as may be also the drinking of a strong draught wherein his fellow-prisoner would needs have him to pledge him. He can take no rest, desiring to change his lodging, and so hath he done from one to an other; but none can he abide, having so much noise of the prisoners and naughty savours. Now his wife hath leave to come unto him for to tend him in his sickness; but he is constrained to pay eightpence every meal, and as much for her."

"And how is he treated of Alisaunder?" said John. "Not over well, I warrant you."

"Nay, there you are out," said Mr Ive; "for (as Underhill told me), the very first night that he went in, one of the prisoners took acquaintance of him, whose name was Bristo, and would have him to have a bed in his chamber. He had been with Sir Richard Cromwell in his journey to Landrecies, that Underhill also was in, and could play well on a rebeck, and was a Protestant, which yet he kept secret, or (saith he to Underhill), 'I had never found such favour as I do at the keeper's hand and his wife's; for to such as love the Gospel they be very cruel.'—'Well (saith Underhill), I have sent for my Bible, and, by God's grace, therein shall be my daily exercise. I will not hide it from them.'—'Sir (answered he), I am poor, but they will bear with you, for that they see your estate is to pay well; and I will show you the nature and manner of them, for I have been here a good while. They both do love music very well; wherefore you with your lute, and I with my rebeck, will please them greatly. He loveth to be merry and to drink wine, and she also; and if you will bestow upon them every dinner and supper a quart of wine and some music, you shall be their white son [favourite], and have all their favour that they can show you.' And so, as Underhill told me, he found it come to pass."

"And where is the babe?" said Isoult, pityingly.

"My Nell hath little Guilford," answered Mr Ive, "and maketh as much ado of him, as she were his own mother. Concern you not for him; with God's blessing, the child shall fare well."

On Tower Hill, whither they had sent so many better than themselves, on the 22nd of August, Sir John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, and Sir Thomas Palmer, ended their wretched and evil lives. With them died Sir John Gates.

The Duke rehearsed his confession, as he had made it in the chapel; avowing himself to be of the old learning, "and a Christian now, for these sixteen years I have been none." Which last was the truth. And he said, "he would every man not to be covetous, for that had been a great part of his destruction." And so he tied the handkerchief over his own eyes, and lay down on the block, and his head was struck off.

So ended this miserable man; for whom it had been a thousand times better that he had never been born, than to have destroyed himself and England together, and to have offended so bitterly Christ's little ones.

After him came Sir John Gates, who said little, and would have no handkerchief over his eyes; and his head fell at the third blow.

Last came Sir Thomas Palmer, "nothing in whose life became him like the leaving it." For when the people bade him good morrow, he said,—"I do not doubt but that I have a good morrow, and that I shall have a better good even." And then he went on to tell them, "that he had been lawfully condemned, and that he did therein thank God for His mercy: for that sithence his coming into the Tower, he had seen himself, how utterly and verily vile his soul was—yea, he did not think any sin to be, that he had not plunged even into the midst of it [Note 1]; I and he had moreover seen how infinite were God's mercies, and how Jesus sitteth a Redeemer at the right hand of God, by whose means His people shall live eternally. For I have learned (said he) more in one little dark corner in yonder Tower, than ever I learned by any travail in so many places as I have been." And he desired the people to pray for him, for he "did in no wise fear death." So, taking the executioner by the hand, he said he forgave him heartily, but entreated him not to strike till he had said a few prayers, "and then he should have good leave." And so he knelt down, and laid his head on the block, and prayed; then lifting his head again, once more asked all present to pray for him; and so again laid down his head, which was stricken from him at one stroke.

And that night Isoult Avery wrote in her diary—"Verily, I do know that the mercies of God are infinite; and I bless Him heartily therefor. But had I been to say any that I knew which was little like to come unto them, I had named this man. God be lauded if He hath shown him what is sin, and what is Christ, in his last hours, and hath so received him up to that His infinite mercy. I marvel what sort shall be the meeting betwixt my Lord, and George Bucker, and the Duke of Somerset, and him."

At length Mr Throgmorton found his expected opportunity, and offered his petition for Mr Underhill's release. This petition set forth "his extreme sickness and small cause to be committed unto so loathsome a gaol," and besought that he might therefore be released, offering sureties to be forthcoming when called upon: these were to be himself and his brother-in-law John Speryn, a merchant of London, and a man "very zealous in the Lord." Poor Underhill was still very seriously ill. "I was cast," he tells us, "into an extreme burning ague, that I could take no rest; desiring to change my lodging, and so did from one to an other, but none I could abide, there was so much noise of prisoners and evil savours. The keeper and his wife offered me his own parlour, where he lay himself, which was furthest from noise, but it was near the kitchen, the savour whereof I could not abide. Then did she lodge me in a chamber wherein she said never no prisoner lay, which was her store-chamber, where she said all the plate and money lay, which was much." [Harl. Ms. 425, folio 91, a.] Mr Ive reported that Mr Underhill could be no weaker than he was, and live. His friend Dr Record had been to see him in the prison, whom he describes as "Doctor of Physic, singularly seen [very skilful] in all the Seven Sciences [Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music, and Astronomy], and a great devyne." Mr Rose took his deprivation very quietly. Some of his friends thought he might be all the safer for it, if the persecutors had done all they cared about doing to him. He had hired three rooms for the present in a house in Leadenhall Street. Tidings of further persecution came now daily. "Robin's orders do seem going further off than ever," lamented Isoult. For Bishops Hooper of Gloucester and Coverdale of Exeter were cited before the Council; and the Archbishop, and the Dean of Saint Paul's; and mass was now celebrated in many churches of London. A rumour went abroad of the lapsing of the Archbishop, and that he had sung mass before the Queen; but it proved false. Again the altar was set up in Saint Paul's Cathedral; and when Bishop Bonner came from the Marshalsea, great rejoicing was made. Many by the way bade him welcome home, and "as many of the women as might kissed him." No Gospeller would have kissed him for a King's ransom. On the 5th of September came Mr Ive, with news of Mr Underhill at once good and bad. He was released from Newgate, but was so weak and ill that they were obliged to carry him home in a horse-litter, and the gaoler's servant bore him down the stairs to the litter in his arms like a child; and for all this, those who accompanied him (Mrs Underhill, Mr Speryn, Mr Ive, and others) were afraid lest he should not live till he came home. They were compelled to go very gently, and frequently to halt; so that two hours were required to pass through the city, from Newgate to Aldgate, and night fell before he could get to his house: where he now remained in the same weak and deplorable state, and all the Gospellers were asked to pray for him.

To the great relief of all Protestants, the Archbishop published a letter in which he utterly denied that he had ever said or promised to say mass, to gain favour with the Queen.

"I could have told you so much," said John. "My Lord Archbishop is not the man to curry Favelle."

"Now, I had thought he rather were," said Dr Thorpe.

"One of your Lutheran fantasies," answered John.

Which rather annoyed the old man, who did not like to be reminded that he was or had been a Lutheran; and such reminders he occasionally received from Mr John Avery.

"Have you the news?" said Mr Rose, on the evening of the 14th of September.

"Which news?" asked John. "We know all, methinks, touching my Lord Archbishop, and the Bishops of Gloucester and Exeter, and that Mr Dean is cited. What more?"

"And that Mr Latimer is had to the Tower?"

"Alack, no!" cried Isoult. "Is it assuredly so?"

"I shake hands with him on his way, and saw him go in," answered Mr Rose, sorrowfully.

"With what cheer?"

"As bright and merry as ever I did see him. The warder at the gate was Will Rutter, whom he knew of old; and quoth he to him, 'What, my old friend! how do you? I am now come to be your neighbour again.' And so went in smiling, and is lodged in the garden, in Sir Thomas Palmer's lodging."

"He is a marvellous man," replied John.

"My Lord of Canterbury," pursued Mr Rose, "likewise came into the Tower yesterday. He is lodged in the gate against the Water-gate, where my Lord of Northumberland lay."

"To the same end, I count, for both?" said Dr Thorpe, bitterly.

"The Lord knoweth," answered Mr Rose, "and 'the Lord reigneth.'"

"And will they put down the service-book, think you?" said he.

"They will put down everything save God," said Mr Rose, solemnly; "and Him also, could they but get at Him."

Before September was over, John and Isoult rode to the Limehurst to visit Mr Underhill. They found him in very good spirits for an invalid in a very weak condition, and he said he was improving every day, and had a long tale to tell them when his strength would permit. Mrs Underhill had been compelled to present herself before the Council in order to procure his release, and had there to endure a severe scolding from Lord Winchester for the relationship in which little Guilford had been placed to Lady Jane Grey. She bore it quietly, and got for her reward a letter to the keeper of Newgate, signed by Winchester, Sussex, Bedford, Rochester, and Sir Edward Waldegrave, ordering the release of Mr Underhill, who was to be bound before a magistrate, in conjunction with her brother, Mr Speryn, to appear when summoned.

The progress of the Retrogression—for such it may be fairly termed—was swifter than that of the Reformation had been. "Facilis descensus Averni,"—this is the usual course. High mass was restored in Saint Paul's Cathedral, and in very few London churches were Gospel sermons yet preached. With bitter irony, liberty was granted to Bishop Ridley— to hear mass in the Tower Chapel. Liberty to commit idolatry was not likely to be used by Nicholas Ridley. The French Protestants were driven out, except a few named by the Ambassador; Cranmer, Latimer, Hooper, Coverdale, were cited before the Council; and on the 28th of September, the Queen came to the Tower, in readiness for her coronation.

At one o'clock on the 30th, the royal procession set forth, fitly preceded by a crowd of knights, doctors, bishops, and peers. After them rode the Council; and then the new Knights of the Bath, to create whom it had been the custom, the day previous to the coronation. The seal and mace were carried next, between the Lord Chancellor (Bishop Gardiner) and the Lord Treasurer, William Paulet, Marquis of Winchester. The old Duke of Norfolk followed, with Lord Arundel on his right, and Lord Oxford on his left, bearing the swords of state. Sir Edward Hastings, on foot, led the Queen's horse. She sat in a chariot of tissue, trapped with red velvet, and drawn by six horses. Mary was dressed in blue velvet, bordered with ermine, and on her head she carried not only a caul of tinsel set with gold and stones, but also a garland of goldsmith's work, so massive that she was observed to "bear up her head with her hands." She was subject to violent headaches, and in all probability was suffering from one now. A canopy was borne over her chariot. In the second chariot, which was "all white, and six horses trapped with the same," sat the heiress presumptive of England, the Princess Elizabeth, "with her face forward, and the Lady Anne of Cleve, with her back forward:" both ladies were attired in crimson velvet. Then came "four ladies of estate riding upon horses"—the eccentric old Duchess of Norfolk; the Marchioness of Winchester; Gertrude, the long-tried Marchioness of Exeter; and Mary Countess of Arundel, niece of Lady Lisle. Both riders and horses were apparelled in crimson velvet. The third chariot, covered with cloth of gold, and the horses similarly caparisoned, while the peeresses within were clad in crimson velvet—two ladies on horseback, in crimson velvet—the fourth and fifth chariots, and more ladies on horseback, to the total number of forty-six, and all in crimson velvet—these followed one another in due course. Last came the Queen's women, riding upon horses trapped in crimson satin, and attired in the same material. Among them, the third of the eight maids of honour, looked out the sweet face of Anne Basset, gentlest of "her Highness' women." [Note 2.]

And so closed this crimson pageant, meet inauguration of England's bloodiest reign. Of other pageants there was no lack; but I pass them by, as also the airy gyrations of Peter the Dutchman on the weathercock of Saint Paul's.

On the west side of the Cathedral was a sight which more amazed the party of sight-seers from the Lamb than any other with which they had met that day. This was the Hot Gospeller, who had literally risen from his bed to see the pageant. Mr Edward Underhill sat upon a horse—but he shall describe his own appearance, for it must have been remarkable. "Scant able to sit, girded in a long night-gown, with double kerchiefs about my head, a great hat upon them, my beard dubed hard too, my face so leane and pale that I was the very image of death, wondered at of all that did behold me, unknown to any. My wife and neighbours were toto [too-too, an archaism for very] sorry that I would needs go forth, thinking I would not return alive. Then went I forth, having of either side of me a man to stay me... When the Queen passed by, ... many of my fellows the Pensioners and divers of the Council beheld me, and none of them all knew me." [Note 3.]

"Why, Ned!" cried John, "are you able to sit thus on an horse and mix in crowds?"

"No," said he.

"Then," he answered, "what brought you hither?"

"Marry, mine own obstinate resolvedness," said Mr Underhill, laughing feebly, "that neither my Jane, nor Jack Speryn, nor Ive, could combat."

John rode with his friend to the Limehurst, and saw him safe home, to the great relief of Mrs Underhill, who declared that she had not had a minute's rest since he set out, expecting every hour to receive some terrible news concerning him.

Sunday, the 1st of October, was fixed for the coronation. That ceremony was almost invariably on the Lord's Day. There was no service in the Cathedral; for none but unmarried Bishops or priests would the Queen permit to officiate before her; and there were very few of the first. Order was also issued that no married priest should minister again in any of the churches.

The Gospellers were reduced to stratagem. Since the churches were closed to them, they opened their own houses. By arrangement with Mr Rose, service was held in the Lamb on the evening of the Coronation Day, safety being secured by a preconcerted signal-tap. About forty persons gathered, exclusive of the families of the host and the minister. A small congregation; but a congregation of live souls, who were ready to yield life sooner than faith. The majority of congregations are hardly made of that material now. "If all the real Christians were gathered out of this church," once said William Romaine to his flock, "there would not be enough to fill the vestry." How frightfully uncharitable! cries the nineteenth century—and I dare say the flock at Saint Anne's thought so too. But there is a charity towards men's souls, and there is a charity towards men's feelings. If one of the two must be dispensed with, we shall wish in the great day of account that it had been the latter. The two "keeping-rooms" of the Lamb—which they called the great and little chambers, but which we, their degenerate descendants, might term the dining-room and drawing-room—were filled with this living congregation; and Mr Rose read prayers from the now prohibited Service-Book, and preached the prohibited doctrines. Before all had dispersed, Mr George Ferris made his appearance, and supped at the Lamb, as did Mr Rose and Mr Holland, with their respective families.

After supper, Mr Ferris, leaning back in his chair, suddenly said,—"If you list to know the order of her Highness' crowning, I am he that can tell you; for all this day have I been in Westminster Abbey and Hall."

He was universally encouraged to proceed.

"The Queen," said he, "came first by water to the old Palace, and there tarried she till about eleven of the clock. And thence went she afoot to the Abbey, upon blue cloth railed in on every side; and she ware the same array as she came in through London. Afore her went the Bishops (to wit, all the unwedded), their mitres on their heads and their crosiers borne afore them. She was led betwixt old Tunstal of Durham and an other Bishop, and right behind her came the Devil in the likeness of Stephen Gardiner, a-censing her and casting holy water upon her all the way, which must needs have spoiled her brave blue velvet gown ere she set foot in the Abbey. In the Abbey was the throne, covered with baudekyn; but I pray you, demand not of me a regular account of all that was done; for it was so many and sundry ceremonies that my weak head will not hold them. I know only there was kneeling and courtesying and bowing and censing, and holy water, and a deal more of the like trumpery, wherewith I am no wise compatient [the lost adjective of compassion]; and going up unto the altar, and coming down from it; and five several times was she led thereto, once to offer there her pall of baudekyn and twenty shillings, and once, leaving her crimson velvet mantle behind the travers, she was laid down on a cushion afore the altar, while four knights held the pall over her; and anointed with tedious and endless ceremonies; and crowned with three crowns (Saint Edward's, the imperial, and one made for her a-purpose) by the aforesaid Stephen Gardiner; and a ring of gold set on her finger; and a bracelet of precious stones and gold set upon her arm by the Master of the Jewel House; and the sceptre given her of my Lord of Arundel (the old time-server!) and the ball, of the Lord Treasurer; and the regal of gold, of the Bishop of Winchester; and the staff of Saint Edward, of my Lord of Bath; and the spurs, of my Lord of Pembroke. Come, pray you now, let me take breath!—Well, after all this, the Bishops and nobles did homage to her Highness; but the time would not serve for all, seeing the homage to the altar had taken so much away; so they knelt in groups, and had a spokesman to perform for them. My Right Reverend Lord Bishop of Winchester was for himself and all other Bishops; old Norfolk stood alone as a Duke (for all the other Dukes were in the Tower, either alive or dead); the Lord Marquis of Winchester was for his order; my Lord of Arundel for the Earls, my Lord of Hereford for the Viscounts, and my Lord of Burgavenny for the Barons. All these kissed her Highness' left cheek; and all this time stood my Lord of Shrewsbury by her, aiding her to hold up the sceptre. Well then, believe it who will, my masters, but after all this came the mass. And no sooner begun, than the Bishop of Lincoln and the Bishop of Hereford marched straight out of the church, mitres and all. It was nigh four of the clock ere her Grace came from the Abbey; and she came in a gown of purple velvet, with the crown upon her head, and every noble and noble lady following in cramoisie, and on their heads crownets [the old form of the word coronet] of gold. Three swords were borne afore her, and a canopy over her, carried of the Wardens of the Cinque Ports: and in one hand she held a sceptre of gold, and in the other a ball of gold, which she twirled and turned in her hand as she came. And no sooner had she set foot in the Hall, than the people fell a-scrambling for the cloth and rails. Yea, they were not content with the waste meat cast out of the kitchen to them, but they pulled down and carried off the kitchen also."

"Come, Ferris, be reasonable in your Romaunts," said Mr Holland.

"Who did ever hear any man to be reasonable in a Romaunt?" asked he. "But this is not romance, 'tis truth. Why, the kitchen was but cast up of boards outside the Palace, for the time and occasion; and they made it a waste indeed. It was candle-light ere her Grace took barge."

"But was there no pardon proclaimed?" said John.

"Lo' you, now! I forgat that. Ay, afore the anointing, my gracious Lord Chancellor proclaimeth her Majesty's goodly pardon unto all prisoners whatsoever and wheresoever—save and except an handful only, to wit, such as were in the Marshalsea, and the Fleet, and the Tower, and such as had order to keep their houses, and sixty-two more."

"Why, that were to except them all!" cried Mr Holland.

"Nay, they excepted not them in Newgate, nor the Counter."

"A goodly procession of pardoned men!" said John.

"Well," said Dr Thorpe, after a short pause, "the Queen's reign is now fairly established; what shall the end be?"

"Ask not me," replied Mr Ferris.

"We know what it shall be," answered Mr Rose, thoughtfully. "'I will overturn, overturn, overturn, until He come whose right it is, and I will give it Him.' Let as pray for His coming. And in the mean time have we a care that our loins be girded about, and our lamps burning; that when He cometh and knocketh, we may open unto Him immediately. We shall be unready to open immediately, if our hands be overfull of worldly matters. It were not well to have to say to Him, 'Lord, let me lay down this high post, and that public work, and these velvet robes, and this sweet cup, and this bitter one—and then I will open unto Thee.' I had rather mine hand were on the latch of the door, looking out for Him."

"But, Father Rose, men must see to public matters, and wear velvet robes, and carry weights of all fashions—why, the world would stand still else!"

"Must men do these things, Master Ferris? yet be there two ways of doing them. Believe me, there is one other thing they must do—they must meet Christ."

A jovial, merry, gallant gentleman was George Ferris; and a Protestant— of some sort. But he outlived the persecution. It was not of such stuff as his that martyrs were made. The gorgeous pageants were over, and the bitter suffering came back.

Parliament was opened on the 13th of November, with a solemn mass of the Holy Ghost, the Queen herself being present in her robes; but as soon as the mass began, the Archbishop of York, and the Bishops of Lincoln and Hereford, rose and attempted to walk out of the House. Hands were laid on the Bishop of Lincoln, and his Parliament robe taken from him; and upon confession of his faith, (which he made boldly) he was cited before the Council. The Archbishop and the Bishop of Hereford were suffered to depart for that time; but rumour ran that Hereford would soon be deprived, being a married priest. Perhaps he was not made of metal that would bear the furnace; for God took His child home, before the day of suffering came. The rough wind was stayed again in the day of the east wind. But on the 14th of November came a more woeful sight. For the prisoners in the Tower were led on foot to the Guild Hall, the axe carried before them, there to be judged. First walked the Archbishop of Canterbury, his face cast down, between two others. Then followed the Lord Guilford Dudley, also between two. After him came his wife, the Lady Jane, apparelled in black, a black velvet book hanging at her girdle, and another open in her hand. After her followed her two gentlewomen, and Lords Ambrose and Henry Dudley. The Archbishop was attainted for treason, although he had utterly refused to subscribe the King's letters patent for the disinheriting of his sisters.

Late in the evening Mr Ive looked in, to say that he hath spent all the day at the Guild Hall, and brought the sad news that the gentle Lady Jane and all the Lords Dudley were condemned to death. It was expected, however, that the Queen would not suffer the sentence to be executed on her own cousin Lady Jane. The Archbishop, Mr Ive told them, came back to the Tower, looking as joyful as he had before been cast down. He was entirely acquitted of treason, and remanded to be tried for heresy; for which he blessed God in the hearing of the Court.

"One step more," said Mr Rose to Avery, whom he met in Cheapside. "The old service-book of King Henry must now be used, and the new of King Edward put away; and in every church in London shall the mass be next Sunday or Monday. And Saint Katherine's Eve shall be processions, and Saint Nicholas shall go about as aforetime."

So, slowly and darkly, closed the black year, 1553.

Married priests forbidden to minister—the English Service-Book prohibited—orders issued for every parish church to provide cross, censer, vestments, and similar decorations of the House of Baal—mass for the soul of King Edward in all the churches of London. It was not six months since the boy had died, with that last touching prayer on his lips—"Lord God, preserve this realm from Papistry!" Was that prayer lost in the blue space it had to traverse, between that soul and the altar of incense in Heaven? We know now that it was not. But it seemed utterly lost then. O Lord, we know not what Thou doest now. Give us grace to wait patiently, to be content with Thy promise that we shall know hereafter!

There was one bright spot visible to the tear-dimmed eyes of the Gospellers, and only one. The Parliament had been prorogued, and the Bloody Statute was not yet re-enacted. All statutes of premunire were repealed, and all laws of King Edward in favour of reformation in the Church. But that first and worst of all the penalties remained as yet in the oblivion to which he had consigned it. But in recompense for this, there was a very black cloud darkening the horizon of 1554. The Queen had announced to her Parliament her intended marriage with Prince Philip of Spain. All the old insular prejudices against foreigners rose up to strengthen the Protestant horror of a Spanish and Popish King. The very children in the streets were heard to cry, "Down with the Pope and the Spaniards!" Elizabeth would have known how to deal with such an emergency. But Mary was blind and deaf. Disregarding this outbreak of popular feeling, she went on, in the way which led to her ruin and England's. It was only one of the two which was irremediable. The one was followed by a summer day of glory; the other closed only in the night of death.

The first news which reached the Lamb in 1554, was the startling information—if any information can be called startling in that age of sudden and shocking events—that the night before, Mr Ive had been hastily apprehended and committed to the Marshalsea. He was soon released, unhurt; but this occurrence quickened Mr Underhill's tardy movements. He had already made up his mind to remove from the Limehurst, where his abode was too well-known to the enemy; the arrest of his friend and neighbour determined him to go at once. He took "a little house in a secret corner at the nether end of Wood Street," Cheapside. About Epiphany was born Susan Bertie, the only daughter of the Duchess of Suffolk. Shortly before this the Emperor's Ambassadors came over to treat concerning the Queen's marriage, and were pelted with snowballs by children in the streets of the City. The vacant sees were filled up by Popish divines; Cardinal Pole was invited to return to England (from which he had been so many years exiled), in the capacity of Legate; the Queen dissolved the Court of First Fruits, and commanded that the title of "Head of the Church in earth" should be omitted from the enumeration of her titles in all future documents. Permission granted to Lady Jane to walk in the Queen's garden and on Tower Hill revived for a moment the hopes of the Protestants so far as concerned her. No harm would come to her, they sanguinely repeated, if the Queen were left to herself. Possibly they were fight. But what likelihood was there that Gardiner would so leave her? and—a question yet more ominous—what might Philip of Spain require in this matter? Men not yet sixty years of age could remember the time when, previous to the marriage of Katherine of Aragon, the Earl of Warwick, last surviving male of the House of York, had been beheaded on Tower Hill. Once before, the royal blood of England had been shed at the demand of Spain: might the precedent not be repeated now? The only difference being, that the victim then was a tercel gentle, and now it would be a white dove.

In the middle of January, before his removal from the Limehurst, and when he was sufficiently recovered to "walk to London an easy pace," Mr Underhill made his appearance one afternoon in the Minories. He came with the evident intention of telling his own story.

"And would you," said he, "hear the tale of my examination and imprisonment?"

"That would we, and with a right good will," answered Dr Thorpe, speaking for all. "We do know even what Mr Ive could tell us, but nothing further."

"Then what Ive could not tell you," resumed he, "take from me [these incidents in Underhill's life are given almost entirely in his own words]. I guessed (and rightly so) what was the cause of mine arrest; to wit, a certain ballad that I had put forth against the Papists, and for that I was a Sacramentary. Well, when I came into the Tower, where the Council sat, they were already busied with Dr Coxe and the Lord Ferrers; wherefore I was to wait. So I and my two men went to an alehouse to dinner in the Tower, and after that repaired to the Council chamber door, to be the first taken, for I desired to know my lot. Then came Secretary Bourne to the door, looking as the wolf doth for a lamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me, and he took me in greedily. The Earl of Bedford was chief judge, next the Earl of Sussex, and Sir Richard Southwell; and on the side next me sat the Earl of Arundel and Lord Paget. By them stood Sir John Gage, the Constable, the Earl of Bath, and Mr Mason; at the board's end stood Sergeant Morgan and Secretary Bourne. And the Lord Wentworth stood in the bay window. Then my Lord of Bedford (who was my very friend, owing unto the chance that I had to recover his son, as I told you aforetime; yet would not now seem to be familiar with me, nor called me not by my name), said,—'Did not you set a ballad of late in print?'—I kneeled down, saying, 'Yes, truly, my Lord; is that the cause I am called before your Honours?'—'Marry,' said Secretary Bourne, 'you have one of them about you, I am sure.'—'Nay truly, have I not,' said I.—Then took he one out of his bosom and read it over distinctly, the Council giving diligent ear. When he had ended,—'I trust, my Lord,' said I, 'I have not offended the Queen's Majesty in the ballad, nor spoken against her title, but maintained it.'—'You have, sir,' said Morgan. 'Yes, I can divide your ballad, and make a distinction in it, and so prove at the least sedition in it.'—'Yea,' I said, 'you men of law will make of a matter what ye list.'—'Lo!' said Sir Richard Southwell, 'how he can give a taunt! You maintain the Queen's title with the help of an arrant heretic, Tyndale.'—'You speak of Papists there, sir,' said Mr Mason. 'I pray you, how define you a Papist?'—'Why,' said I, 'it is not long since you could define a Papist better than I.' With that some of them secretly smiled, as the Lord of Bedford, Arundel, Sussex, and Paget. In great haste Sir John Gage took the matter in hand. 'Thou callest men Papists there,' said he; 'who be they thou judgest to be Papists?'—'Sir,' said I, 'I do name no man, nor I am not hither to accuse any, nor none I will accuse; but your Honours do know that in this controversy that hath been, some be called Papists and some Protestants.'—'But we will know whom thou judgest to be Papists, and that we command thee upon thine allegiance to declare.'—'Sir,' said I, 'I think if you look among the priests in Poules, ye shall find some old mumpsimuses there.'—'Mumpsimuses, knave!' saith he, 'mumpsimuses! thou art an heretic knave!' and sware a great oath.—Says the Earl of Bath, 'I warrant him an heretic knave, indeed.'—'I beseech your Honours,' said I (speaking to the Lords that sat at the table, for these other that stood by be not now of the Council), 'be my good Lords. I have offended no laws, and I have served the Queen's Majesty's father and her brother long time, and in their service have spent and consumed part of my living, never having as yet any preferment or recompense, and the rest of my fellows likewise, to our utter undoing, unless the Queen's Highness be good unto us; and for my part I went not forth against her Majesty, notwithstanding I was commanded, nor liked those doings.'—'No, but with your writings you will set us together by the ears,' saith the Earl of Arundel.—'He hath spent his living wantonly,' saith Bourne, 'and now saith he hath spent it in the King's service; which I am sorry for: he is come of a worshipful house in Worcestershire.' [Note 4]—'It is untruly said of you,' said I, 'that I have spent my living wantonly. I never consumed no part thereof until I came into the King's service, which I do not repent, nor doubted of recompense if either of my two masters had lived. I perceive you are Bourne's son of Worcester, who was beholden unto my uncle Wynter, and therefore you have no cause to be my enemy, nor you never knew me, nor I you, before now, which is too soon.'—'I have heard enough of you,' said he.—'So have I of you,' said I, 'how that Mr Sheldone drave you out of Worcestershire for your behaviour.'—With that came Sir Edward Hastings from the Queen in great haste, saying, 'My Lords, you must set all things apart, and come forthwith to the Queen.'—Then said the Earl of Sussex, 'Have this gentleman unto the Fleet, until we may talk further with him.' (Although I was knave before of Master Gage.)—'To the Fleet?' saith Master Southwell, 'have him to the Marshalsea!'—'Have the heretic knave to Newgate!' saith Master Gage again.—'Call a couple of the guard here,' saith Bourne, 'and there shall be a letter sent to the keeper how he shall use him, for we have other manner of matters with him than these.'—'So had ye need,' said I, 'or else I care not for you.'—'Deliver him to Mr Garret, the Sheriff,' said he, 'and bid him send him to Newgate.'—'My Lord (said I unto my Lord of Arundel, for that he was next me, as they were rising) I trust you will not see me thus used to be sent to Newgate; I am neither thief nor traitor.'—'Ye are a naughty fellow,' said he; 'ye were alway tuting in the Duke of Northumberland's ear, that ye were.'—'I would he had given better ear unto me,' said I; 'it had not been with him then as it is now.'—Mr Hastings pushing by me (mine old adversary, with whom I had been aforetime wont to reason touching the Sacrament), I thought good to prove him, although he threatened before now.—'Sir,' said I, 'I pray you speak for me that I be not sent unto Newgate, but rather unto the Fleet, which was first named. I have not offended. I am a gentleman, as you know, and one of your fellows, when you were of this band of the Pensioners.'—Very quietly he said unto me, 'I was not at the table, Mr Underhill, and therefore I can say nothing to it.' But I think he was not content with the place I was appointed to. Well, I count Ive told you all he saw, touching my progress to Master Sheriff, and thence to Newgate. But while I waited in the Sheriff's house, my Lord Russell heard my voice, and showed very sorry for me; and sent me on the morrow twenty shillings, and every week as much while I was in Newgate. I count Ive told you moreover of my sickness."

"Ay, and of the ill savours and noise that you could not abide," said Dr Thorpe; "and of your changing of your lodging; and how Dr Record did visit you, and divers other things."

"Then he told you all," said Mr Underhill. "And now (for 'tis past nine of the clock) this great knave, rogue, and heretic, must be on his way home."

Mr Underhill left behind him a new ballad which he had lately published. Since it probably does not exist in print now, it shall be subjoined, and in the orthography of its author.

"Love God above all thyngs, and thy neyghboure as thy selffe; Thatt this is Crist's doctryne, no mane cane it denye; Wyche litle is regarded in Yngland's common wealthe, Wherefore greate plags att hande be, the realme for to distroye.