"Thank God for that!" whispered Sir John in reply.
Cardinal Reginald Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury, was perhaps the foremost Englishman of his age.
An aristocrat of the finest type, with the royal blood of the Plantagenets in his veins, he was, above all things, an ecclesiastic of stainless life and reputation.
Those who differed from him toto cælo in religious matters were eager to acknowledge his incorruptibility and devotion to duty.
Men remembered how boldly he had withstood the threats and cajoleries of King Henry VIII; how, later, he had shown a bold front to the Vatican itself, and to the most dreaded tribunal in the world, the "Holy Office"!
There was something eminently pleasing and attractive in the face, bearing and physique of the great Cardinal. Notwithstanding his long sojourn in foreign lands, he was a typical Englishman.
He wore his hair long—it hung in profusion on his broad shoulders, and, like his long bushy beard, was of a rich brown colour.
His fine expressive face was somewhat colourless, but it was lit up by the deep-blue eyes of the Plantagenet race—eyes which at times gleamed with tenderness and pity.
He was spare in body, and his hands were as small and as delicately shaped as those of a woman.
The whispered conversation between the Chancellor and the Cardinal had come to an end, and for a moment a deep silence brooded in the Court.