CHAPTER SEVEN.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
"Long since we parted! I to life's stormy wave-- Thou to thy quiet grave, Leal and true-hearted!"
The first regnal act of Henry the Eighth was to strip the loyal lords ofthe titles conferred upon them just two years before. Once more,Aumerle became Earl of Rutland; Surrey, Earl of Kent Exeter, Earl ofHuntingdon; Wiltshire, Sir William Le Scrope; and Gloucester, Lord LeDespenser.
Hitherto, King Richard had been imprisoned in the Tower, a lonelycaptive. But now, possessed by jealous fears of insurrection andrestoration, the usurper hurried his royal prisoner from dungeon todungeon:--to Leeds Castle, Pickering, Knaresborough, and lastly, aboutthe middle of December, to Pomfret, which he was never to leave alive.
The guilty fears of Henry were not unfounded; but perhaps the judicialmurder of Lord Wiltshire at Bristol quickened the action of the littleband, now again reduced to six. They met quietly at Oxford in December,to concert measures for King Richard's release and restoration,resolving that in case of his death they would support the title ofMarch. But there was a seventh person present, whom it isincomprehensible that any of the six should have been willing to trust.This was Aumerle, vexed with the loss of his title, and always as readyto join a conspiracy at the outset as he was to play the traitor at theclose. The extraordinary manner in which this man was always trustedafresh by the friends whom he perpetually betrayed, is one of themysteries of psychological history. His plausibility and powers offascination must have been marvellous. An agreement was drawn up,signed by the six, and entrusted to Aumerle (who cleverly slipped out ofthe inconvenience of signing it himself), containing promises to raiseamong them a force estimated at 8,000 archers and 300 lance-men, to meeton the fourth of January at Kingston, and thence march to Colnbrook,where Aumerle was to join them.
On the day appointed for the meeting at Kingston, Aumerle, attired in ahandsome furred gown, went to dine with his father. The Duchess appearsto have been absent. Aumerle carried the perilous agreement in hisbosom, and when he sat down to dinner, he pulled it forth, andostentatiously placed it by the side of his silver plate. The six sealscaught the old Duke's eye, as his son intended they should; and hiscuriosity was not unnaturally aroused.
"What is that, fair son?" inquired his father.
Aumerle ceremoniously took off his hat--then always worn at dinner--andbowed low.
"Monseigneur," said he obsequiously, "it is not for you."
Of course, after that, York was determined to see it.
"Show it me!" he said impatiently; "I will know what it is."
Aumerle must have laughed in his traitor heart, as with feignedreluctance he handed the document to his father. York read it through;and then rose from the table with one of his stormy bursts of anger.
"Saddle the horses!" he shouted forth to the grooms at the lower end ofthe hall. And, turning to his son,--"Ha, thou thief! False traitor!thou wert false to King Richard; well might it be looked for that thoushouldst be false to thy cousin King Henry. And thou well knowest,rascal! that I am pledged for thee in Parliament, and have put my bodyand mine heritage to pawn for thy fidelity. I see thou wouldst fainhave me hanged; but, by Saint George! I had liefer thou wert hangedthan I!"
York strode out of the hall, calling to the grooms to hasten. Aumerlegave him time to mount the stairs to assume his riding-suit, and thenhimself went quietly to the stable, saddled a fleet barb, and rode forhis life to Windsor.
"Who goes there?" rang the royal warder's challenge.
"The Lord of Rutland, to have instant speech of the King. Is mygracious Lord of York here?"
York had not arrived, and his son was safe. The warder had pushed tothe great gates, and was leading the way to the court-yard, when to hisastounded dismay, Aumerle's dagger was at his throat.
"How have I offended, my Lord?" faltered the poor man.
"No hast," was the response; "but if thou lock not up the gatesincontinent, and give the keys to me--"
The keys were in Aumerle's pocket the next minute. An hour later, whenhis story was told, and his pardon solemnly promised, York and his traincame lumbering to the gate, to find his news forestalled. When Henryhad read the agreement, which York brought with him, he set outimmediately for London, while Aumerle calmly repaired to his tryst atColnbrook. Here Exeter was the first to join him. Aumerle informed hisfriends that Henry was coming to meet them with a large army, but theydetermined nevertheless to advance. They passed Maidenhead Bridge insafety, but as soon as they crossed it, the vanguard of Henry's army wasvisible. To the amazement of his colleagues, Aumerle, on whom they hadcounted as staunch and loyal, doffed his bonnet with a laugh, and,spurring forward, was received by the enemy as an expected ally. Therecould be no doubt now that he had betrayed his too trusting friends.Yet even then, the little band held the bridge till midnight. But bymidnight all hope was over. There was left only one alternative--flightor death. The loyal six set spurs to their horses; and Surrey's steedbeing fleetest, he soon outdistanced the others. All that night Surreyrode at a breathless gallop, and when morning broke he was dashing pastOsney Abbey into the gates of Oxford. Exeter came up an hour or twolater; the rest followed afterwards. But they did not mean to stop atOxford for more than a few hours' rest. Then they spurred on toCirencester. On reaching the city gate, Surrey, with his usualimpulsive eagerness, shouted to the Constable, "Arm for King Richard!"The Constable, supposing that "the luck had turned," obeyed; but thenext morning brought an archer from Henry, who must have discovered orguessed whither the fugitives had gone. Surrey received Henry's messageand messenger with sovereign contempt; but the Constable, finding thatHenry was still in power, immediately went over to the winning side, andthere was a town riot. The peers had taken up their temporary abode inan inn, which was surrounded and besieged by the mob. Surrey, impetuousas usual, rushed to the window to address the mob. He was received witha shower of arrows. His friends sprang forward to rescue him; but timeand the things of time were over for the young, dauntless, gallantSurrey. They could only lay him gently down on the rushes to breatheout his life. It was a sad end. Fairest and almost highest of thenobles of England, of royal blood, of unblemished character, of greatwealth, and only twenty-five--to die on the floor of an inn, in a mobriot!
But what was to become of the rest? Exeter's fertile brain suggested away of escape.
"Quick--fire the rushes! And then ope the back windows, and drop downinto the fosse."
It is manifest from the circumstances, that the back windows of the innopened from the town wall upon the ditch which ran round it, and whichin all probability was filled with water. John Maudeleyn gathered ahandful of the rushes, with which he set fire to the room in two orthree places. The five who remained--Exeter, Salisbury, Le Despenser,and the two Maudeleyns,--then dropped down from the window, swam acrossthe fosse, and fled into the fields, where the scattered relics of theirown army were advancing to join them. But Exeter's idea had been ashade too brilliant. He frightened by the fire not only his foes, buthis friends.
His troops fancied that Henry had come up, and was burning Cirencester;and, panic-stricken, they dispersed in all directions. The five partedinto three divisions, and fled themselves.
They fled to death.
Exeter set out alone. His destination was Pleshy, whence he meant toescape to France. But the angel of death met him there in the guise ofa woman, Joan Countess of Hereford, mother-in-law of Henry, and sisterof Archbishop Arundel. She had never forgiven Exeter for sitting injudgment on her brother the Earl of Arundel, and she rested not now tillshe saw him stretched before her, a headless corpse.
The two Maudeleyns went towards Scotland. Richard was apprehended, andexecuted. There is good reason to believe that John, escaped, and thatit was he who, in after years, personated King Richard at the ScottishCourt.
The Lollard friends, Salisbury and Le Despenser, determined to attempttheir escape together.
> For a minute they waited, looking regretfully after Exeter: then LeDespenser said to his squire--
"Haste, Lyngern!--for Cardiff!"
They rode hard all that day--wearily all that night. Over hill anddale, fording rivers, pushing through dense forests, threading mountainpasses, wading across trackless swamps. Town after town was leftbehind; river after river was followed or crossed; till at last, as thesun was setting, they cantered along the banks of the broad Severn, withthe towers of Berkeley Castle rising in the distance.
It was here that Salisbury drew bridle.
"'Tis no good!" he said. "I can no more. My Lord, mine heart misgivethme that you be wending but to death. Had it been the pleasure of theLord that we should escape our enemies, well: but if we be to meetdeath, let me meet it at home. Go you on to your home, an' it like you;but for me, I rest this night at Berkeley, and with the morrow I turnback to Bisham."
Le Despenser looked sadly in his face. It seemed as though his lastfriend were leaving him.
"Be it as you list, my Lord of Salisbury," he said. "Only God go withboth of us!"
Who shall say that He did not, though the road lay through the darkriver? For on the other side was Paradise.
So the Lollard friends parted: and so went Salisbury to his death. Forhe never reached Bisham; he only crept back to Cirencester, and there hewas recognised and taken, and beheaded by the mob.
A weary way lay still before Le Despenser and Bertram. They journeyedover land; and many a Welsh mountain had to be scaled, and many a brookforded, before--when men and horses were so exhausted that another dayof such toil felt like a physical impossibility--spread before them laythe silver sea, and the sun shone on the grim square towers of Cardiff.
"Home!" whispered the noble fugitive, slackening his pace an instant, asthe beloved panorama broke upon his sight. "Now forward, Lyngern--home!"
Down they galloped wearily to the gates, walked through the town--stopped every moment by demands for news--till at last the Castle wasreached, and in the base court they alighted from their exhaustedsteeds. And then up-stairs, to Constance's bower, occupied by herself,the Dowager, little Richard, and Maude. Bertram hurriedly preceded hismaster into the room. The ladies, who were quietly seated at work, andwere evidently ignorant of any cause for excitement, looked up insurprise at his entrance.
"Please it the Lady,--the Lord!"
Constance rose quickly, with a more decided welcome than she usuallyvouchsafed to her husband.
"Why, my Lord! I thought you were in London."
"What ill hath happed, son?" was the more penetrating remark of theDowager.
"Well nigh all such as could hap, Madam," said Le Despenser wearily. "Iam escaped with life--if I have so 'scaped!--but with nought else. AndI come now, only to look on your beloved faces, and to bid farewell.--Maybe a last farewell, my Lady!"
He stood looking into her face with his dark, sad eyes,--looking as ifhe believed indeed that it would be a last farewell. Constance wasstartled; and his mother's theories broke down at once, and she sobbedout in an agony--
"O Tom, Tom! My lad, my last one!"
"You mean it, my Lord?" asked Constance, in a tone which showed that shewas not wholly indifferent to the question.
"I mean it right sadly, my Lady."
"But you go not hence this moment?"
Le Despenser sank down on the settle like the exhausted man he was.
"This moment!" he repeated. "Nay, not so, even for life. I am wearyand worn beyond measure. And to part so soon! One night to rest; andthen!--"
"My Lord, are you well assured of your peril?" suggested Constance."This your castle is strong and good, and your serving-men and retainersmany, and the townsmen leal--"
She stopped, tacitly answered by her husband's sorrowful smile, which soplainly replied, "_Cui bono_?"
"My Lady!" he said quietly, "think ye there is this moment a tower, or anoble, or a rood of land, that the Duke of Lancaster will leave unto us?I cast no doubt that all our lands and goods be forfeit, some days erenow."
He judged truly enough. On the day of the fugitives' flight from Oxfordto Cirencester, a writ of confiscation was issued in Parliament againstevery one of them. That was the 5th of January; and this was theevening of the 10th. There was a mournful rear-supper at Cardiff Castlethat night; and no member of the household, except the wearied BertramLyngern, thought of sleep. Maude was busied in making up money andjewels into numberless small packages, under the orders of the Dowager,to be concealed on the persons of Le Despenser and his attendant squire.The intention of her master was to take passage on some boat bound forIreland, and thence to escape into Scotland or France.
Le Despenser slept late into the morning--no wonder for a man who hadscarcely been out of his saddle for six days and nights. Thepreparations for the continuation of his flight were nearly completed;but he had not yet been disturbed, when a strange horn was heard outsidethe fosse of the Castle. Constance, who had risen early, and was in anexcited state of mind, hastily opened a lattice to hear who was thevisitor.
"Who goes there?" demanded the warder's deep voice.
"Sir William Hankeford, Justice of the King's Bench, bearing hisHighness' warrant. Open quickly!"
There could be no question as to his object--the arrest of Le Despenser.Constance breathlessly shut the window, bade Maude sweep the littlepackets of jewellery and coin into her pocket, dashed into her bower,and awoke her still slumbering husband.
"Rise, my Lord, this instant! Harry of Bolingbroke hath sent to takeyou. We must hide you some whither."
Le Despenser was almost too tired and depressed to care forapprehension.
"Whither, my Lady?" he asked hopelessly. "Better yield, maybe."
"_Ninerias_!" [Nonsense!--literally, _childishness_] cried Constancehastily, using a word of her mother's tongue, which she had frequentlyheard from the lips of Dona Juana. And springing to the wardrobe in theante-chamber, she was back in a second, with a thick furred winter gown.
"Lo' you, my Lord! Lap you in this, and--"
And Constance glanced round the room for a safe hiding-place.
"And!"--said Le Despenser, smiling sadly, but doing as he was requested.
"Go up the chimney!" said Constance hurriedly. "They will never lookthere, and there is little warmth in yon ashes."
She caught up the shovel, and flung a quantity of cinders on the almostextinct fire. The idea was not a bad one. The chimney was as wide as asmall closet; there were several rests for the sweep; and at one sidewas a little chamber hollowed out, specially intended for some suchemergency as the present. With the help of the two ladies and Maude, LeDespenser climbed up into his hiding-place.
Ten minutes later, Sir William Hankeford was bowing low in thebanquet-hall before the royal lady of the Castle, who gravely and verycourteously assured him of her deep regret that her lord was not at hometo receive him.
"An' it like you, Madam," returned the acute old judge, "I am bidden ofthe King's Grace to ensure me thereof."
"Oh, certes," said Constance accommodatingly. "Maude! call hitherMaster Giles, and bid him to lead my learned and worshipful Lord intoevery chamber of the Castle."
The judge, a little disarmed by her perfect coolness, instituted thesearch on which he was bound. He turned up beds, opened closets, shookgowns, pinched cushions, and looked behind tapestry. So determined washe to secure his intended prisoner, that he went through the wholeprocess in person. But he was forced to confess at last that, so far ashe could discover, Cardiff Castle was devoid of its master. The baffledjudge and his subordinates took their departure, after putting a seriesof questions to various persons, which were answered without theslightest regard to truth, the replicants being ignorant of any penaltyattached to lying beyond confession and penance; and considering,indeed, that in an instance like the present it was rather a virtue thana sin. When they were fairly out of sight, Constance went leisurelyback to her bower, and called u
p the chimney.
"Now, my good Lord, you may descend in safety."
Le Despenser obeyed; but he came down looking so like a chimney-sweepthat Constance, whose versatile moods changed with the rapidity oflightning, flung herself on the bed in fits of laughter. Theinterrupted preparations were quickly resumed and completed; and whenall was ready, and the boatman waiting at the Castle pier, Le Despenserwent into the hall to bid farewell to his mother. She was sitting onthe settle with an anxious, care-worn look. Maude stood in the window;and at the lower end three or four servants were hurrying about, ratherrestlessly than necessarily.
The old lady rose when her son entered, and her often-repressed loveflowed out in unwonted fervour, as she clasped him in her arms, knowingthat it might be for the last time.
"Our Lord be thine aid, my lad, my lad! Be true to thy King; but whatsoshall befall thee, be truest to thy God!"
"God helping me, so will I!" replied he solemnly.
"And--Tom, dearest lad!--is there aught I can do to pleasure thee?"
The tears sprang to his eyes at such words from her.
"Mother dear, have a care of my Lady!"
"I will, so!" answered the Dowager; but she added, with a pang ofjealous love which she would have rebuked sorely in another--"I wouldshe held thee more in regard."
"She may, one day," he said, mournfully, as if quietly accepting theincontrovertible fact. "I told you once, and I yet trust, that the daymay dawn wherein my Lady's heart shall come home to God and me."
Maude remembered those words five years later.
"And now, Mother, farewell! I trust to be other-whither ere Wednesdayset in."
His mother kissed him, and blessed him, and let him go.
Le Despenser took his usual leave of the household, with a kind word, aswas his wont, even to the meanest drudge; and then he went back to hislady's bower for that last, and to him saddest farewell of all.
His grave, tender manner touched Constance's impressible heart. Shetook her leave of him more affectionately than usual.
"Farewell, my Lady!" he faltered, holding her to his breast. "We meetagain--where God will, and when."
"And that will be in France, ere long," said Constance, sanguinely."You will send me speedy word of your landing, my Lord?"
"You will learn it, my Lady."
Why did he speak so vaguely? Had he some dim presentiment that his"other-whither" might be Jerusalem the Golden?
No such hidden meaning occurred to Constance. She was almost startledby the sudden flood of pent-up, passionate feeling, which swept all theusual conventionalities out of his way, and made him whisper in accentsof inexpressible love--
"My darling! my darling! God keep and bless thee! Farewell once more--Custance!"
They had never come so near to each other's hearts as in that moment ofparting. And the moment after, he was gone.
In the court-yard little Richard was running and dancing about underMaude's supervision; and his father stayed an instant, to take the childagain into his arms and bless him once more. And then he left hisCastle by the little postern gate which led down to the jetty. Therewere barges passing up and down the Channel, and Le Despenser'sintention was to row out to one of those bound for Ireland, and soprosecute his voyage. He wore, we are told, a coat of furred damask;and carried with him a cloak of motley velvet. The term "motley" wasapplied to any combination of colours, from the simplest black and whiteto the showiest red, blue, and yellow. In the one portrait occurring inCreton's life-like illuminations, which I am disposed to identify withthat of Le Despenser, he wears a grey gown, relieved by very narrowstripes of red. Perhaps it was that identical cloak or gown which hungupon the arm of Bertram Lyngern, just outside the postern gate.
"Nay, good friend!" objected Le Despenser, with his customary kindlyconsideration. "I have wearied thee enough these six days. MasterGiles shall go with me now."
"My Lord," replied Bertram, deferentially, yet firmly, "your especialcommand except, we part not, by your leave."
Le Despenser acquiesced with a smile, and both entered the boat. WhenDavy the ferryman returned, an hour later, he reported that his masterhad embarked safely on a barge bound for Ireland.
"Then all will be well," said Constance lightly.
"God allowing!" gravely interposed the old lady. "There be winds andwaves atween Cardiff and Ireland, fair Daughter."
Did she think only of winds and waves?
No news reached them until the evening of the following Thursday. Theyhad sat down to supper, about four o'clock, when the blast of a hornoutside broke the stillness. The Lady Le Despenser, whom the basin ofrose-water had just reached for the opening washing of hands, droppedthe towel and grew white as death.
"Jesu have mercy! yonder is Master Lyngern's horn!"
"He is maybe returned with a message, Lady," suggested Father Ademar,the chaplain; but all eyes were fixed on the door of the hall untilBertram entered.
The worst apprehensions which each imagination could form took vividshape in the minds of all, when they saw his face. So white andwoe-begone he looked--so weary and unutterably sorrowful, that allanticipated the news of some heavy and irreparable calamity, from whichhe only had escaped alone to tell them.
"Where left you your Lord, Master Lyngern?"
It was the Dowager who was the first to break the spell of silence.
"Madam," said Bertram, in a husky, faltering voice, "I left him not atall--till he left me."
He evidently had some secret meaning, and he was afraid to tell theawful truth at once. Constance had risen, and stood nervously graspingthe arm of her state chair, with a white, excited face; but she did notask a question.
"Speak the worst, Bertram Lyngern!" cried the old lady. "Thy Lord--"
It seemed to Bertram as if the only words that would come to his lips inreply were two lines of an inscription set up in many a church, and asfamiliar to all present as any hackneyed proverb to us.
"`_Pur ta pite, Jesu, regarde, Et met cest alme en sauve garde_.'"
There was an instant's dead silence. It was broken by the mother's cryof anguish--
"Tom, Tom! My lad, my last lad!"
"Drowned, Master Lyngern?" asked a score of voices.
Bertram tacitly ignored the question. He walked languidly up the hall,and dropping on one knee before the Princess, presented to her asapphire signet-ring--the last token sent by her dead husband.Constance took it mechanically; and Bertram, going back to his usualseat, filled a goblet with Gascon wine, and drank it like a man who wasfaint and exhausted.
"Sit, Master Lyngern, and rest you," pursued the Dowager; "but when yoube refreshed, give us to wit the rest."
The tone of her voice seemed to say that the worst which could come, hadcome; and the dreadful fact known, the details mattered little.
Bertram attempted to eat, but almost immediately he pushed away histrencher, and regardless of etiquette, laid his forehead upon his arm onthe table.
"I cannot eat! And how shall I speak what I must say? I would havedied for him." Then, suddenly lifting his head, he spoke quickly, as ifhe wished to come at once to the end of his miserable task. "Nobleladies, my Lord of Salisbury is beheaden of the rabble at Cirencester,and my Lord of Exeter at Pleshy; and men say that Lord Richard the Kinglieth dead at Pomfret, and that God wot how."
Constance spoke at last, but in a voice not like her own.
"God doom Henry of Bolingbroke!"
The words, if repeated, might have doomed her; but she feared no man.
That evening, Bertram told the details of that woeful story.
The barge-master whom they had accosted was sailing westwards, and hereadily agreed to take Le Despenser and his suite over to Ireland.Somewhat too readily, Bertram thought; and he feared treachery from thefirst. When the boat had pulled off to some distance, the barge-masterasked to what port his passengers wished to go. He was told that anyIrish port on the eastern coast would suit them; and he th
en altered histone, and roughly refused to carry them anywhere but to Bristol. Theman's evil intentions were manifest now; and Le Despenser, drawing hissword, sternly commanded him to continue his voyage to Ireland, if hevalued his life. The barge-master's only reply was a lowsignal-whistle, in answer to which twenty men, concealed in the hold,sprang on deck and overwhelmed the little band of fugitives. The bargethen put about for Bristol, and on landing, the noble captive wasdelivered by the treacherous barge-master into the custody of the Mayor.That officer put him in close prison, and despatched a fleet messengerto Henry to inquire what should be done with him. But before the answerarrived, the capture became known in Bristol, and a clamorous mobassembled before the Castle. The Mayor, to his credit, did his best toresist the rabble, and to save his prisoner; but the mob were strongerthan authority. They carried the gates, rushed pell-mell into theCastle, and dragged the captive forth into the market-place. And thenBertram saw his master again--a helpless prisoner, in the hands of afurious mob, among whom several priests were active. As he appeared,there was a great shout of "Traitor!" and a few cries, lower yet moreterrible, of "Heretic!" They dragged him to the block erected in themidst of the market-place, by which stood the public executioner. LeDespenser saw unmistakably that his last hour had come; and he had notbeen so far from anticipating that closing scene, that he was unpreparedfor its coming.
"Sir," he said, turning to the executioner with his ordinary courtesy,"I pray you of your grace to grant me time for prayer, and strike notere"--touching his handkerchief--"I shall let this fall."
The executioner, a quiet, practical man, unpossessed by the fury of themob, promised what was asked of him. Meantime Bertram Lyngern contrivedto squeeze himself inch by inch through the crowd, until at last hestood beside his master.
"Ah, my trusty squire!" was the prisoner's greeting. "Look you--havehere my signet, which with Master Mayor's gentle allowing, you shallbear unto my Lady."
The Mayor nodded permission. He was vexed and ashamed.
"Farewell, good friend," resumed Le Despenser, with a parting grasp ofhis squire's hand. "Be sure to tell Madam my mother that I died true toGod and the King--and say unto my Lady that my last thought was of her."
Then he knelt down to commune with God. But he asked for no priest; andwhen they saw it, the cries of the mob became fiercer than ever.
"Traitor!" and "Heretic!" were roared from every part of the vastsquare.
Le Despenser rose, and faced his enemies.
"I am no traitor to my true King, and no heretic to the living God!" hecried earnestly. "I was ever a true man to God, and to the King, and tomy Lady: touching which ye are not my judge, but God."
His voice was drowned by another roar of execration. Then he kneltagain--and the handkerchief fell. But just as the executioner raisedhis arm--
"Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart--"
One word trembled on the dying lips--"Custance!"
In another minute, lifting the severed head by its dark auburn hair, theexecutioner shouted to the sovereign mob--"This is the head of atraitor!"
"Thou liest!" broke in a low fierce whisper from Bertram Lyngern.
"I wis that, Master!" returned the poor executioner.
He was not the first man, nor the last, who has been required topronounce officially what his conscience individually refused tosanction.
The severed head was sent to London, a ghastly gift to the usurper. Itwas set up on London Bridge, beside that of Exeter. The body wascarried into the Castle, saved by the Mayor from insult; and a few daysafterwards they bore it by slow stages to Tewkesbury Abbey, and laid himin his father's grave.
Surrey and Exeter died for their King alone. But it was only half forKing Richard that Salisbury and Le Despenser died; and the other halfwas for the word of God, and for the testimony of Jesus Christ. Theywere both hereditary Lollards and chiefs of the Lollard party; and theywere both beheaded, not by Henry's authority, but by a priest-riddenmob. And at that Bar where the cup of cold water shall in no wise loseits reward, surely such semi-martyrdom as that day beheld at Bristolwill not be forgotten before God.
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Note 1.
"Jesu, in Thy dear love behold, And set this soul in Thy safe fold."
These lines were spoken by the figure called "Pity," in the paintingtermed the "Five Wells" or wounds of Christ.