“Death.”
Lord Marnell hastily laid his hand on a buttress, to steady himself, when he heard this awful news.
“You have deceived me, father! You have deceived me!” he cried. “You told me, some months gone, when first I called you into this matter, that the sentence on heretics was prison.”
“My good Lord, I pray you remember that I told you but a moment back, that the new Act is just passed. Ere that the sentence truly was close prison; but now—”
On finding himself thus inveigled by the cunning of Abbot Bilson, Lord Marnell was beside himself with passion. He burst into a torrent of the most fearful language. Abbot Bilson stood calmly by, as if quite accustomed to such scenes.
“My good Lord, I pray you blaspheme not, or I must needs appoint you a sore penance,” was all that he mildly observed.
Lord Marnell recovered himself by a strong effort, and asked, as politely as he could, what description of death was commanded by the new Act.
“Burning or beheading, at the pleasure of the King’s Grace,” replied the Abbot, as unconcernedly as though the choice in question lay between a couple of straws.
“My wife, being a peeress, will of force be beheaded?”
“Likely, I trow,” replied the Abbot, drawing his cowl closer over his head, as a cold blast of wind came up the street.