“No, miserable reprobate!” said he, “thou hast spoken too much already!”
“I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!” was the martyr’s answer.
The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face? And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the hall at Lovell Tower—
“Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory—”
But the voice fails there, and the “blessing” is spoken to the angels of God.
And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very like the voice of Richard Pynson—
“I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not dye withouten eende.” (John xi. 25).
“The noble army of martyrs praise Thee,” softly adds old Carew.
Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.