When Chris had recovered himself, the monk was deep in his story, but Ralph had fallen out of it.
“You would not believe it,” he was saying, “but on the very jury that was to try Master Aske and Constable, there were empanelled their own blood-relations; and that by the express intention of Norfolk. John Aske was one of them, and some others who had to wives the sons of my Lord Darcy and Sir Robert Constable. You see how it would be. If the prisoners were found guilty, men would say that it must be so, for that their own kin had condemned them; and if they were to be acquitted, then these men themselves would be cast.”
There again broke out a murmur from the listening faces, as the man paused.
“Well, they were cast, as you know, for not taking the King to be the supreme head of the Church, and for endeavouring to force the King to hold a parliament that he willed not. And I was at York again when Master Aske was brought back from London to be hanged, and I saw it!”
Again an uncontrollable emotion shook him; and he propped his face on his hand as he ended his tale.
“There were many of his friends there in the crowd, and scarcely one dared to cry out, God save you, sir.... I dared not....”
He gave one rending sob, and Chris felt his eyes prick with tears at the sight of so much sorrow. It was piteous to see a brave man thinking himself a coward.
Dom Anthony leaned forward.
“Thank you, father,” he said, though his voice was a little husky, “and thank God that he died well. You have touched all our hearts.”
“I was a hound,” sobbed the man, “a hound, that I did not cry out to him and tell him that I loved him.”