Margery turned her face to the wall. “A fiery trial!” she murmured, as if to herself—“a fiery trial for him as well as me! Is this the way wherein the Father will draw him? If so, Richard, I can bear it.”
The 16th of February came. On the morning of that day, as Lord Marnell stepped out of his own house into the open air, with the intention of paying his usual visit to Margery, Abbot Bilson came up, radiant and smiling, and carrying under his arm a large parchment roll.
“Ah, my very good Lord, well met! Whither away?”
“I purpose to see Madge.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Abbot, who was occupied with an amusement which comes naturally to men of his disposition, and has been wittily denned as “washing one’s hands with invisible soap, in imperceptible water.”
“What hast under thine arm, reverend father?” asked Lord Marnell.
“Ah! this is the indictment of the Lady Marnell. Your Lordship witteth that she will be examined to-morrow afore the council, and by them sentenced.”
“You will endeavour yourself, reverend father, that the sentence be made as light as may be.”
“My Lord, we have but one sentence for heretics,” said Abbot Bilson, with a smile which showed all his teeth, like a wild beast. “The Act regarding them was yestermorn sceptred by the King’s Grace.”
“One!” remarked Lord Marnell, in some surprise. “The sentence now, then, is—?”