n himself. I am glad to see you have sense and
discretion to be of the same mind, my maid."

"I cannot but grieve for his sad condition, sir," replied Anne, "but
as for anything more--it would make me shudder to think of it--he is
still too like Robin Goodfellow."

"That's my good girl," said her uncle. "And do you know, child,
there are the best hopes for the Bishops. There's a gentleman come
down but now from London, who says 'twas like a triumph as the
Bishops sat in their barge on the way to the Tower; crowds swarming
along the banks, begging for their blessing, and they waving it with
tears in their eyes. The King will be a mere madman if he dares to
touch a hair of their heads. Well, when I was a lad, Bishops were
sent to the Tower by the people; I little thought to live to see
them sent thither by the King."

All the way home Dr. Woodford talked of the trial, beginning perhaps
to regret that his niece must go to the very focus of Roman
influence in England, where there seemed to be little scruple as to
the mode of conversion. Would it be possible to alter her
destination? was his thought, when he rose the next day, but loyalty
stood in the way, and that very afternoon another event happened
which made it evident that the poor girl must leave Portchester as
soon as possible.

She had gone out with him to take leave of some old cottagers in the
village, and he finding himself detained to minister to a case of
unexpected illness, allowed her to go home alone for about a quarter
of a mile along the white sunny road at the foot of Portsdown, with
the castle full in view at one end, and the cottage where he was at
the other. Many a time previously had she trodden it alone, but she
had not reckoned on two officers coming swaggering from a cross road
down the hill, one of them Sedley Archfield, who immediately called
out, "Ha, ha! my pretty maid, no wench goes by without paying toll;"
and they spread their arms across the road so as to arrest her.

"Sir," said Anne, drawing herself up with dignity, "you mistake--"

"Not a whit, my dear; no exemption here;" and there was a horse
laugh, and an endeavour to seize her, as she stepped back, feeling
that in quietness lay her best chance of repelling them, adding--

"My uncle is close by."

"The more cause for haste;" and they began to close upon her. But
at that moment Peregrine Oakshott, leaping from his horse, was among
them, with the cry--

"Dastards! in