“Oh, when Johnson’s burned—as he will be, I reckon—the children ’ll be bred up in convents, be sure,” was Margaret’s answer.
“Nay! I’ll be sure of nought so bad as that, as long as God’s in heaven.”
“There’s no miracles now o’ days, Rose.”
“There’s God’s care, just as much as in Elijah’s days. And, Margaret, they’ve burned little children afore now.”
“Eh, don’t, Rose! you give me the cold chills!”
“What’s that?” Rose was listening intently.
“What’s what?” said Margaret, who had heard nothing.
“That! Don’t you hear the far-off tramp of men?”
They looked at each other fearfully. Margaret knew well enough of what Rose thought—the Bailiff and his searching party. They stopped their undressing. Nearer and nearer came that measured tread of a body of men. It paused, went on, came close under the window, and paused again. Then a thundering rattle came at the door.
“Open, in the Queen’s name!”