“They have suffered to-day,” he said.
News had reached Lewes nearly a week before that the Carthusians had been condemned, for refusing to acknowledge the King as head of the English Church, but it had been scarcely possible to believe that the sentence would be carried out, and Chris felt the blood beat in his temples and his lips turn suddenly dry as he heard the news.
“I was there, my Lord Prior,” said the monk.
He was a middle-aged man, genial and plump, but his face was white and anxious now, and his mouth worked. “They were hanged in their habits,” he went on. “Prior Houghton was the first despatched;” and he added a terrible detail or two.
“Will you see the place, my Lord Prior?” he said, “You can ride there. Your palfrey is still at the door.”
Prior Robert Crowham looked at him a moment with pursed lips; and then shook his head violently.
“No, no,” he said. “I—I must see to the house.” The monk looked at Chris.
“May I go, my Lord Prior?” he asked.
The Prior stared at him a moment, in a desperate effort to fix his attention; then nodded sharply and wheeled round to the door that led to the upper rooms.
“Mother of God!” he said. “Mother of God!” and went out.