“Almost to the door,” replied the priest. “And only that my hour had not yet come, I had been well content, in my heart, to have rendered me up, and found on the gibbet a crown of glory.”
“Ave Maria!” ejaculated Craftall, crossing himself.
“Eripe me, Domine!” cried the priest, also crossing himself. “Shall we heed this corrupt body in the service of Holy Church? Would the gibbet were now”——
Here a loud knock was inflicted on the door.
“Hush!” whispered Craftall, in a trembling voice.
The priest, whose countenance had just before beamed with the loftiest resolution, crouched with terror.
“’Tis the persecutor!” he faltered.
“Hie thee within, then, holy father!” stammered Craftall, beseechingly.
Whether it was that his hour had not yet come, or that the persecutor, however contemptible in the distance, appeared formidable at close quarters, the priest readily embraced this advice, and passed through the inner door to another chamber. When he had thus disappeared, Craftall, with more composure of manner, proceeded to the outer door, and there demanded who was without.
“The servants of the Lord,” answered a harsh voice.