ision of the
conqueror's welcome; it was like a tale heard long ago. Now he was
beaten down by physical facts, by the gross details of the tragedy, the
strangling, the blood, the smoke, the acrid smell of the crowd, and
heaven was darkened by the vapour.

It was not until the next day, as he sat with the Prior and a stranger
or two, and heard the tale once more, and the predictions about More and
Fisher, that the significance of Ralph's position appeared to him
clearly. He knew no more than before, but he suddenly understood what he
knew.

A monk had said a word of Cromwell's share in the matters, and the Prior
had glanced moodily at Chris for a moment, turning his eyes only as he
sat with his chin in his hand; and in a moment Chris understood.

This was the work that his brother was doing. He sat now more distracted
than ever: mental pictures moved before him of strange council-rooms
with great men in silk on raised seats, and Ralph was among them. He
seemed to hear his bitter questions that pierced to the root of the
faith of the accused, and exposed it to the world, of their adherence to
the Vicar of Christ, their uncompromising convictions.

He had sat through dinner with burning eyes, but the Prior noticed
nothing, for he himself was in a passion of absorption, and gave Chris a
hasty leave as he rose from table to go and see his brother if he
wished.

Chris had walked up and down his room that afternoon, framing sentences
of appeal and pity and terror, but it was useless: he could not fix his
mind; and he had gone off at last to Westminster at once terrified for
Ralph's soul, and blazing with indignation against him.

And now he was walking down to the river again, in the cool of the
evening, knowing that he had ruined his own cause and his right to speak
by his intemperate fury.

* * * * *

It was another strange evening that he passed in the Prior's chamber
after supper. The same monk, Dom Odo, who had taken him to Tyburn the
day before, was there again; and Chris sat in a corner, with the
reaction of his fury on him, spent and feverish, now rehearsing the
scene he had gone through with Ralph, and framing new sentences that he
might have used, now listening to the talk, and vaguely gathering its
meaning.

It seemed that the tale of blood was only begun.

Bedale, the Archdeacon of Cornwall, had gone that day to the
Charterhouse; he had been seen driving there, and gettin