This was manifestly something serious.
“But ta’en whom, Will, dear?—not thy father?”
“Oh nay, nay!—the Black Friar.”
“What Black Friar, Will?” Agnes hardly knew her own voice.
“Why, our Black Friar—Father Laurence. There was only one.”
For a minute there was dead silence in reply—a minute, during which the rose-colour died out of sky and earth, and the glad music was changed to funeral bells. Then Agnes rose from her stooping position.
“There was only one!” she repeated, with a far-away look in her eyes, which were fixed on the tower of the Cathedral, but saw nothing.
“He was so good to me and Dickon!” sobbed Will.
“Child, wilt do thy best to find out whither they have ta’en him, and when he is to be had afore the Bishops, and then come and tell me?”
Will, occupied in rubbing his eyes with his small sleeve, nodded assent. Agnes filled her pails mechanically, and carried them home. The world must go on, if the sun would never rise any more for her.