“Thinkest thou that all do err which believe not as thou dost?” said Bonner with his usual bluster.
“I do say so, my Lord,” was the determined answer.
Once more the prisoners were remanded, but only until afternoon. Agnes did not dare to stay. She had ascertained from Cicely Marvell, whom she saw in the crowd, that prisoners’ friends were often permitted a farewell interview between sentence and execution; and if she meant to apply for that, she must not risk Mistress Winter’s anger by remaining now. Cicely promised to bring her news of the sentence.
“Lo’ you now! here cometh my fair Lady Dominica!” was Dorothy’s salutation, as Agnes re-entered the kitchen. “What news, sweet Mistress Blackfriars? Is thy goodly sweet-heart consecrate Lord Bishop of Duneery, or shall he but be Master Doctor Dean of Foolscap?”
Agnes vouchsafed no answer.
“Woe betide us! here is Madam Gospeller hath lost her tongue!” cried Dorothy. “Do but give me to wit, prithee, sweetest Sacramentary! So dear love I all Black Friars, I may never sleep till I know.”
“They be yet again remanded,” replied Agnes dreamily.
Though she felt sure what the end would be, it was impossible to realise it. Surely all that was passing must be some dreadful dream, from which she would presently awake, perhaps in the little bed which used to be hers in her aunt’s pretty cottage, and find that all the past, for eight years, had been a groundless vision.
Yet Dorothy’s torturing pin-pricks were real enough. All day long she persisted in worrying Agnes by pretended sympathy—so patently pretended that it was excessively annoying. The towel was snatched from her as she was washing her hands, with an entreaty that Dorothy might take that trouble for her; the mop was hidden where she could not find it, with an assurance that it would but increase the bitterness of her sorrow to discover it; invisible strings were stretched across the kitchen where she was sure to fall over them,—in order, as Dorothy tenderly intimated, to turn her thoughts from the painful anxiety which she must be enduring. It seemed to Agnes as if night and certainty would never come. Yet how could she wish it, when she felt so sure what the awful certainty would be? The hours wore on; the dark came at last; and when the night had fairly set in, Cicely Marvell’s soft tap was heard on Mistress Winter’s door. Agnes opened it herself. Dorothy had indeed rushed to do it, but fortunately Agnes contrived to reach it before her. It was evident that Cicely was loth to tell her terrible news, though Dorothy begged her, over Agnes’ shoulder, to relieve her heartrending suspense. Was it from one faint throb of womanly feeling in her usually hard heart, that Mistress Winter, in sharp tones, summoned Dorothy within, and left Agnes to hear the news alone?
“Speak, Mistress Marvell,” said Agnes, in that preternaturally calm manner which she had worn from the first. “It is death.”