He took my hand in his, and held it tenderly.
'My child,' he said, 'to an old man of seventy-five what doth it matter whether he die in his bed or whether he die upon a scaffold? Through the pains of death, as through a gate, we enter upon our rest.'
'It is dreadful!' I cried again. 'I cannot endure it!'
'The shame and ignominy of this death,' he said, 'I shall, I trust, regard lightly. We have struck a blow for Freedom and for Faith. Well; we have been suffered to fail. The time hath not yet come. Yet, in the end, others shall carry on the Cause, and Religion shall prevail. Shall we murmur who have been God's instruments?'
'Alas! alas!' I cried again.
'To me, sweet child, it is not terrible to contemplate my end. But it is sad to think of thee, and of thy grave and bitter loss. Hast thou heard news of Robin and of Humphrey?'
'Oh, Sir!—are they also in prison—are they here?'
'No; but I have news of them. I have a letter brought to me but yesterday. Read it, my child, read it.'
He pulled the letter out of his pocket and gave it to me. Then I read aloud, and thus it ran:—
'Honoured Sir and Grandfather,