said a woman who stood
near Richard Pynson.

"Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?" asked the Abbot.

"To God I will and have done," answered Margery; "to man I will not."

There was a short pause, while the sheriff's men, under his direction,
heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly.
Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long
document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they
passed a chain round Margery's body, and fastened her to the stake. The
sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.

"Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?" asked Margery of
the Abbot.

"No, miserable reprobate!" said he, "thou hast spoken too much already!"

"I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!" was the
martyr's answer.

The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile
of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to
heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the
flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped
hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face?
And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice
of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the
hall at Lovell Tower--

"_Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and
wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory_--"

But the voice fails there, and the "blessing" is spoken to the angels of
God.

And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very
like the voice of Richard Pynson--

"_I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be
deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not
dye withouten eende_." [John xi. 25].

"The noble army of martyrs praise Thee," softly adds old Carew.

Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MARGERY'S LETTER.

"So that day there was dole in Astolat."

Tennyson.

The winter had just given place to spring, and a bright, fresh morning
rose on Lovell Tower. Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she was
when we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and the
handmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, and
her face was thinner and much graver. Richard Pynson on his return from
London, had brou