e of heads, surrounded by many other
lords and ladies in shining colours. They sat there ready to sign the
pardon that was prepared if the friar would be moved by fear or by the
Bishop's argument to hang his head and recant.

The friar, truly, hung his head, clung to the rungs of the ladder,
trembled so that all men might see, and once caught furiously at the
iron chain and shook it; but no word came from his lips. Culpepper was
bursting with pride and satisfaction because he was a made man and
would have all the world to know it. He swung his green bonnet round
his red head and called for huzzays when the friar shewed fear. Hogben
called for huzzays for Squahre Tom of Lincoln, and many men cheered.
But the silence dropped again, and the Bishop's words, raised now very
high, dominated the sunlight and eddied around the tall faces of the
house fronts behind.

'Here have sat the nobles of the realm and the King's Majesty's most
honourable council only to have granted pardon to you, wretched
creature, if but some spark of repentance would have happened in ye.'
Hanging his cowled poll beneath the beam that reached gigantic and
black across the crowd, the friar shook his head slowly. 'Declared to
you your errors I have,' cried Latimer. 'Openly and manifestly by the
scriptures of God, with many and godly exhortations have I moved you
to repentance. Yet will you neither hear nor speak----'

'Bones of St. Nairn!' Culpepper cried; 'here is too much speaking and
no work. Huzzay! e caitiffs. Burn. Burn. Burn. For the honour of
England.' And, starting from his figure at the verge of the crowd,
cries went up of 'Huzzay!' of 'Burn!' and 'St George for London!' and
unquiet rumours and struggles and waving in the crowd of heads, so
that the Bishop's voice was not heard any more that day.

But through the crowd a silence fell as the image slowly and
totteringly moved forward, ankle deep only in the crowd. Ropes from
the figure's neck ran out and tightened--some among the crowd began to
sing the song against Welsh Papists that ran--

_'David Darvel Gatheren_
_As sayeth the Welshmen_
_Fetched outlaws out of hell!_'

and the burden of it rose so loud that the image swayed over and fell
unheard. At that too a silence fell, and presently there came the
sound of axes chopping. The friar, swaying on his ladder, looked down
and then made a great sign of the cross. The Bishop in his pulpit,
raising his white arms in horror an