“His Grace has been to the Tower lately, I hear, and once to the Marshalsea, to see Dom Sebastian Newdegate, who, as you know, was at Court for many years till he entered the Charterhouse; but I have had no visit from him, nor yet, I should think, Master More—you must not judge his Grace too hardly, my son; he was a good lad, as I knew very well—a very gallant and brave lad. A Frenchman said that he seemed to have come down from heaven. And he has always had a great faith and devotion, and a very strange and delicate conscience that has cost him much pain. But he has been counselled evilly.”
Chris remembered as in a dream that the bishop had been the King’s tutor years before.
“He is a good theologian too,” went on the bishop, “and that is his misfortune now, though I never thought to say such a thing. Perhaps he will become a better one still, if God has mercy on him, and he will come back to his first faith. But we must be good Catholics ourselves, and be ready to die for our Religion, before we can teach him.”
Again, after another silence, he went on.
“You are to be a priest, I hear, my son, and to take Christ’s yoke more closely upon you. It is no easy one in these days, though love will make it so, as Himself said. I suppose it will be soon now?”
“We are to get a dispensation, my lord, for the interstices,” said the Prior.
Chris had heard that this would be done, before he left Lewes, and he was astonished now, not at the news, but at the strange softness of the Prior’s voice.
“That is very well,” went on the bishop. “We want all the faithful priests possible. There is a great darkness in the land, and we need lights to lighten it. You have a brother in Master Cromwell’s service, sir, I hear?”
Chris was silent.
“You must not grieve too much. God Almighty can set all right. It may be he thinks he is serving Him. We are not here to judge, but to give our own account.”