“Children, go—and God bless you.”
They looked at him questioningly, but he did not falter.
“John, my son, you understand. They will come for me soon; I am ready; I shall no longer be ashamed. Go. I would not have you near the fringe of the slough into which these good Protestants will throw me. You have your lives to live. It is my desire that no shadow of mine should ever darken them again.”
Barbara looked at her husband, for she did not understand the meaning of what was said. My lord smiled at her and pointed toward the distance. The authority seemed his that day.
“John will tell you the truth. It is for your sakes that I demand this.”
Both husband and wife faltered, but Stephen Gore’s eyes were clear and unflinching.
“John, if this should be the end of me, what I have is yours, unless the rogues sequestrate it. Now go, my son, and be happy. It is my last wish, and you will grant it me.”
And so they left him, sadly, unwillingly, feeling like traitors leaving a friend to death. For the man had seemed lovable, even great, at that last moment, and yet they had felt that it would have been graceless to question his last desire.
Stephen Gore watched them go, following them to the court-yard, and standing above the moat as they rode slowly away toward the woods. Under the beech-trees they turned and looked back at Thorn, and saw him standing there, and waved him a farewell.
“What will it mean?”