Elizabeth was silent, quietly standing to hear her doom pronounced. She knew it was equivalent to a sentence of death. No priest, consulted on such a subject would dare to leave the heretic undenounced. And she had no friends save that widowed mother at Stoke Nayland—a poor woman, without money or influence; and that other Friend who would be sure to stand by her,—who, that He might save others, had not saved Himself.
Nicholas took up his hat and marched out, and Mrs Clere ordered Elizabeth off to a little room over the porch, generally used as a lumber room, where she locked her up.
“Now then, think on thy ways!” said she. “It’ll mayhap do thee good. Bread and water’s all thou’lt get, I promise thee, and better than thy demerits. Dear heart! to turn a tidy house upside-down like this, and all for a silly maid’s fancies, forsooth! I hope thou feels ashamed of thyself; for I do for thee.”
“Mistress, I can never be ashamed of God’s truth. To that will I stand, if He grant me grace.”
“Have done with thy cant! I’ve no patience with it.”
And Mistress Clere banged the door behind her, locked it, and left Elizabeth alone till dinner-time, when she carried up a slice of bread—only one, and that the coarsest rye-bread—and a mug of water.
“There!” said she. “Thou shouldst be thankful, when I’ve every bit of work on my hands in all this house, owing to thy perversity!”
“I do thank you, Mistress,” said Elizabeth, meekly. “Would you suffer me to ask you one favour? I have served you well hitherto, and I never disobeyed you till now.”
It was true, and Mrs Clere knew it.
“Well, the brazen-facedness of some hussies!” cried she. “Prithee, what’s your pleasure, mistress? Would you a new satin gown for your trial, and a pearl-necklace? or do you desire an hundred pounds given to the judges to set you free? or would you a petition to the Queen’s Majesty, headed by Mr Mayor and my Lord of Oxenford?”