“And you, Ralph?”
Ralph raised himself in his chair.
“Do you wish me to say what I think?” he asked deliberately, “or what Chris wishes me to say? I will do either.”
Chris made a quick movement of his head; but his father answered for him.
“We wish you to say what you think,” he said quietly.
“Well, then,” said Ralph, “it is this. I cannot agree with the father. I think the woman is neither of God nor Satan; but that she speaks of her own heart, and of Dr. Bocking’s. I believe they are a couple of knaves—clever knaves, I will grant, though perhaps the woman is something of a fool too; for she deceives persons as wise even as Mr. Carleton here by speaking of shrift and the like; and so she does the priests’ will, and hopes to get gain for them and herself. I am not alone in thinking this—there are many in town who think with me, and holy persons too.”
“Is Master Cromwell one of them?” put in Chris bitterly.
Ralph raised his eyebrows a little.
“There is no use in sneering,” he said, “but Master Cromwell is one of them. I suppose I ought not to speak of this; but I know you will not speak of it again; and I can tell you of my own knowledge that the Holy Maid will not be at St. Sepulchre’s much longer.”
His father leaned forward.