“You, sir,” cried the doctor, glaring at the Sub-Prior, who dropped his beseeching eyes at the fierce look, “you, sir, have committed the crime—in ignorance, you tell me—but at least the crime of preaching in this priory-church in the presence of his Grace’s faithful subjects a sermon attacking the King’s most certain prerogatives. I can make perhaps allowances for this—though I do not know whether his Grace will do so—but I can make allowances for one so foolish as yourself carried away by the drunkenness of words; but I can make none—none—” he shouted, crashing his hand upon the table, “none for your superior who stands beside you, and who forebore either to protest at the treason at the time or to rebuke it afterwards.”
The Prior’s hands rose and clasped themselves convulsively, but he made no answer.
Dr. Layton proceeded to read out the confession that he had wrung from the monk the night before, down to the signature; then he called upon him to come up.
“Is this your name, sir?” he asked slowly.
The Sub-Prior took the paper in his trembling hands.
“It is sir,” he said.
“You hear it,” cried the doctor, staring fiercely round the faces, “he tells you he has subscribed it himself. Go back to your place, reverend father, and thank our Lord that you had courage to do so.
“And now, you, sir, Master Prior, what have you to say?”
Dr. Layton dropped his voice as he spoke, and laid his fat hands together on the table. The Prior looked up with the same dreadful entreaty as before; his lips moved, but no sound came from them. The monks round were deadly still; Ralph saw a swift glance or two exchanged beneath the shrouding hoods, but no one moved.
“I am waiting, my Lord Prior,” cried Layton in a loud terrible voice.