My heart sickened when I heard this, for I had no wish to see the burning, but A’Dale urged me on. “He liked to be in a crowd,” he said, “and we might come away before the fire was set to the piles.” We found that none of the prisoners had as yet passed. At length we saw them coming along from Newgate, the Fleet, and other prisons. They walked on with their hands bound, and a few guards only, and priests on either side. I wondered that none of the crowd attempted to rescue them. It might have been done with great ease, though, perchance, to escape afterwards might have been more difficult.
Occasionally the friends of the prisoners came up and spoke to them, and received their farewells. Some, indeed, kept by their side the whole way, the guards not interfering. Among them, nearly the last, walked a lady. Her figure was tall and graceful, though she stooped somewhat, bowed down by sickness or sorrow. Her features were deadly pale, their whiteness increased by the black dress she wore, her raven hair flowing over her shoulders, for her head was bare. People looked on her with a pitying eye, but no one came up to her. She alone of all the victims appeared to have no friends in that vast crowd. Yet every now and then she lifted up her eyes, and glanced round as if in search of some one. As she passed near where A’Dale and I were standing, it struck me she looked earnestly at me. Fearless of consequences, I darted forward, and took my place by her side.
“Can I be of any service to you?” I said.
She looked at me with an inquiring glance. Her lips opened. “Who are you?” she asked.
“My parents died for the truth at Antwerp, as you are about to die, lady,” I replied. “I would thankfully render you the aid which it was denied me to offer them.”
“I will trust you,” she said. “You will not deceive a dying woman.”
As she spoke, she hastily took a parchment from her bosom, and handed it to me.
“There! conceal it,” she said, “ere it is perceived by others. It contains the certificate of my marriage to my husband, now in foreign lands, and the title-deed of an estate which should be my child’s. I have but one—a young girl. I know not to a certainty where she is; for when I was seized I urged her to fly and to put herself under the protection of some Protestant family, who, for the love of the faith, would support her till the return of her father from abroad. I dared not trust this paper into the hands of my cruel jailers; but I feel sure I may confide it to you, and that you will, to the best of your power, do as I desire.”
I promised the lady that I would faithfully obey her wishes; and so interested did I feel in her fate, that I offered to continue by her side to the last.
“No, no! you will be watched, perchance, if you do, and bring the same doom I suffer on your own head.”