they were safe, and that quietness and confidence
were their best security, and these had the support of the Prior; others
declared that the best hope lay in selling the possessions of the house
at a low price to some trustworthy man who would undertake to sell then
back again at only a small profit to himself when the storm was passed.

The Prior rose in wrath when this suggestion was made.

"Would you have me betray my King?" he cried. "I tell you I will have
none of it. It is not worthy of a monk to have such thoughts."

And he sat down and would hear no more, nor speak.

There were whispered conferences after that among the others, as to what
his words meant. Surely there was nothing dishonourable in the device;
they only sought to save what was their own! And how would the King be
"betrayed" by such an action?

They had an answer a fortnight later; and it took them wholly by
surprise.

During the second week in November the Prior had held himself more
aloof than ever; only three or four of the monks, with the Sub-Prior
among them, were admitted to his cell, and they were there at all hours.
Two or three strangers too arrived on horseback, and were entertained by
the Prior in a private parlour. And then on the morning of the
fourteenth the explanation came.

When the usual business of the chapter was done, the faults confessed
and penances given, and one or two small matters settled, the Prior,
instead of rising to give the signal to go, remained in his chair, his
head bent on to his hand.

It was a dark morning, heavy and lowering; and from where Chris sat at
the lower end of the great chamber he could scarcely make out the
features of those who sat under the high window at the east; but as soon
as the Prior lifted his face and spoke, he knew by that tense strain of
the voice that something impended.

"There is another matter," said the Prior; and paused again.

For a moment there was complete silence. The Sub-Prior leant a little
forward and was on the point of speaking, when his superior lifted his
head again and straightened himself in his chair.

"It is this," he said, and his voice rang hard and defiant, "it is this.
It is useless to think we can save ourselves. We are under suspicion,
and worse than suspicion. I have hoped, and prayed, and striven to know
God's will; and I have talked with my Lord Cromwell not once or twice,
but often. And it is useless to resist any further."

His voice cracke