Mariana the Jesuit who had seemed to teach a king-killing doctrine; but
this sense on his words he repudiated altogether. He too, at the end,
commended his soul into the hands of God, and said that he was ready to
die for Jesus as Jesus had died for him.

Mr. Fenwick had scarcely begun before Mr. Sheriff How broke in on him,
and argued with him concerning the murder of Sir Edmund.

"As for Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey," cried Mr. Fenwick, "I protest before
God that I never saw the man in my life."

"For my part," said the Sheriff, "I am of opinion that you had a hand
in it."

"Now that I am a dying man," said the priest, "do you think that I would
go and damn my soul?"

"I wish you all the good that I can," said Mr. How, "but I assure you I
believe never a word you say."

Well; he let him alone after that; and Mr. Fenwick finished, once more
denying and renouncing the part that had been assigned to him, and
maintaining his innocence.

There followed after that a very long silence, of half an hour, I should
think. The five men stood in the cart together, with their eyes cast
down; and each, I think, absolved his neighbour. The crowd about kept
pretty quiet, only murmuring together; and cried no more insults at
them. I, too, did my best to pray with them and for them; but my horse
was restless, and I had some ado to keep him quiet. After a good while,
Mr. Sheriff How spoke to them again.

"Pray aloud, gentlemen, that we may join with you. We shall do you no
hurt if we do you no good."

They said nothing to that; and he spoke again, with some sharpness.

"Are you ashamed of your prayers?"

Still they did not speak; and he turned on Father Gavan.

"Why, Mr. Gavan," he said, "it is reported that you did preach in the
Quakers' meeting-house."

The priest opened his eyes.

"No, sir," he said, "I never did preach there in all my life."

It was very solemn and dreadful to wait there while they prayed; for
they were at it again for twenty minutes, I should judge, and no more
interruptions from Mr. How, who, I think, was a shade uneasy. It was a
clear June day, beginning to be hot; and the birds were chirping in the
trees about the place--for at times the silence was so great that one
could hear a pin fall, as they say. Now I felt on the brink of hell--at
the thought of the pains that were waiting for my friends, at the memory
of that great effusion of blood that had been poured out and of the
more that was to follo