At Paul’s Wharf the prisoners were landed, and conducted thence up Bennet’s Hill and Paul’s Chain to the Cathedral.
Matins were just over, and within the broad nave of the noble fane a great number of priests, attired in their robes, were assembled, prior to marching in solemn procession to Smithfield.
In the aisles, guarded by halberdiers, were collected groups of recusants of both sexes, brought thither to give effect to the ceremonial. Apart from these, but likewise brought from prison to grace the procession, were several deprived divines of the Protestant Church, some of whom afterwards testified to their faith at the stake, while others were starved in their cells, or died from ill treatment. Many who then met on that melancholy morn, and exchanged a friendly greeting, or a few words of comfort, saw each other for the last time on earth. But in the faces of these stout-hearted champions of the Protestant Church no traces of doubt or discouragement could be discerned. They were evidently prepared to meet their fate with resolution. Neither did they manifest sorrow for the brother about to suffer, regarding him as one whose trials were well-nigh over, and who was certain of meeting his reward.
Within the nave and aisles were congregated a vast number of spectators of the solemn scene.
Close to one of the enormous columns lining the south aisle of the magnificent fane stood Constance. She was looking with a wistful eye at the deprived Protestant divines, when her own name was breathed in her ear by some one close behind.
Not doubting who spoke, she partly turned her head, and perceived Osbert Clinton, who, screened from the guard by the pillar, had contrived to approach her. The only person who noticed the manœuvre was Rodomont, but the kind-hearted fellow looked another way, and tried not to hear what was passing.
Not much was said—but the few words spoke of the young man’s wretchedness at the protracted separation from her he loved.
“Be patient,” she said. “All will be well in the end.”
“Talk not to me of patience,” he rejoined. “I am unable to practice it. My heart will burst in the effort. I cannot live without you, Constance. Commit yourself to me, and I will free you. You will be gone before the guard can notice your absence; and once mingled with the throng, you will be safe. Come!”
“I cannot—dare not go,” she replied. “What would the good Cardinal think of me if I complied?”