“What, Cuthbert at the window! God bless thee, my boy, thou art better then—, this is a sight for sore eyes.”
“Have I been ill, father?”
“Thy nurse has but now left the chamber to get her breakfast, and I came in to take her place, in case thou shouldst awake with recovered consciousness and wonder where thou art.”
“And where am I?”
“Not in Rougemont.”
“I see that, but where?”
“Amongst true friends; this is the mansion of Sir Robert Tremayne, an old friend of our house, to whom we are much indebted.”
“But have I been dreaming? I thought we were led to the scaffold together, that I heard the cathedral bell, the death bell toll for us, and the litany for the dying yet sounds in my ears; then came a scene of tumult and fury, cries of “rescue,” and we seemed to be passed from hand to hand, until at last we passed through a gate or low door into some house on the cathedral yard.”
“It was no dream, my son, our period was indeed near its accomplishment, and, but for the efforts, heroic, but perhaps mistaken, we had been two days (did they number there by days) in Paradise; but it is plain God has work for thee to do on earth; for me I care not how soon I awake to a fairer scene than this; I had hoped the martyr’s death had been our purgatory, and that we had gained the shore.”