CHAPTER VIII.

HOW THE INSURGENTS PROCEEDED TO LAMBETH PALACE.

HOW THE INSURGENTS PROCEEDED TO LAMBETH PALACE.

HOW THE INSURGENTS PROCEEDED TO LAMBETH PALACE.

Meantime, Osbert and his party were more than half across the Thames.

Before them rose the stately palace of Lambeth, with its tower and gateway, looking like a black mass relieved against the clear sky. The serene beauty of night, which contrasted forcibly with the agitating events that were taking place, was not without effect upon Osbert. As he stood at the prow of the barge, leaning upon his sword and contemplating the scene, its holy calmness insensibly softened him, and he began to feel compunction for what he had done. But it was now too late to recede. The step was taken, and he must go on. He must either perish as a traitor, or live as the liberator of his country. Stifling all remorseful feelings, he tried to fix his thoughts on the latter contingency.

As the insurgents approached Lambeth Palace, it was evident from the lights gleaming from the windows, and the sounds heard from the courts, that its inmates were alarmed and astir.

In another moment the little squadron reached the wharf. Osbert was the first to land, and leaped ashore sword in hand. Udal and Rufford followed him, but such expedition was used that only a few minutes elapsed before the whole party had disembarked.

Meantime, their movements were watched from the battlementsof the gateway by Rodomont Bittern and his two lieutenants. As soon as the insurgents had landed, and were drawn up, Osbert marched at their head towards the gateway, but before he reached it, Rodomont called out in a loud voice:—

“Who are ye, Sirs, and what seek ye, that ye approach the palace of the Lord Cardinal in this hostile fashion? State your business without parleying, that I may report it to his Eminence. But I warn you that you can have no admittance at this hour.”

“We will obtain admittance for ourselves if our request be refused,” replied Osbert. “We require Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver, both detained within the palace, to be delivered up to us.”

“By whose warrant do you make this demand?” inquired Rodomont.

“By mine own,” replied the other, “which thus backed, shall answer as well as any other, were it even the Queen’s.”

“None but her Majesty’s own order will procure their liberation,” rejoined Rodomont; “and since you possess not that, you are likely to go away empty-handed. Though I would fain disbelieve it, methinks it is Master Osbert Clinton who speaks to me.”

“I am he you suppose,” replied Osbert. “Use dispatch, good Rodomont, and convey my message to the Lord Cardinal.”

“If you are turned rebel, as I suspect from the tone you adopt, and the armed rout at your heels,” rejoined Rodomont, “I must pray you to cease all familiarity with me. But I will make your demand known to the Lord Cardinal.”

“Fail not to add, that if they be not delivered up, we will enter the palace and take them,” said Osbert.

“I will communicate your exact words,” rejoined Rodomont, “but I warn you, that if you make the attempt you will assuredly be hanged.”

With this he quitted the battlements.

While he was gone, Osbert employed the time in explaining to the insurgents what must be done in the event of the Cardinal’s refusal.

After a brief delay, a wicket in the gate was opened, and Rodomont Bittern came forth.

“What answer bring you from the Lord Cardinal?” demanded Osbert, on seeinghim.him.

“His Eminence will answer you in person,” said Rodomont. “But if you will take the advice of one who was once your friend, and is still your well-wisher, you will pursue this matter no further.”

“A truce to this,” cried Osbert, sternly. “I must have the Cardinal’s answer without delay, or I shall proceed to action. I have no time to waste.”

“You are peremptory, Sir,” observed Rodomont dryly.

“So peremptory, that Iwillhave the prisoners,” rejoined Osbert, fiercely.

“You must discuss that point with the Lord Cardinal himself,” rejoined Rodomont.

As he spoke, the falling of heavy bars within-side proclaimed that the gates were being unfastened, and in another moment the ponderous valves swung aside and disclosed the Cardinal standing beneath the archway.

Close behind him stood Priuli with Constance Tyrrell, habited in black, and looking deathly pale, and a little further removed was Derrick Carver, with Mallet, the keeper of the Lollard’s Tower.

No guard was near the Cardinal; the only persons with him besides Simnel and Holiday being some half-dozen attendants bearing torches. Pole’s features wore a grave and somewhat severe expression. He manifested no apprehension whatever, but fixed a searching though somewhat sorrowful glance upon Osbert and the insurgent crew drawn up behind him.

Seen by the light of the torches which gleamed upon the Cardinal’s majestic figure, upon Constance’s pallid but lovely features, upon Priuli’s noble countenance, and Derrick Carver’s rugged physiognomy—upon Osbert, who, sword in hand, confronted the Cardinal, and upon the insurgents with their pikes—the whole picture was exceedingly striking.

The conference was opened by Pole, who, eyeing Osbert severely, and speaking in a stern tone, said, “I have caused my gates to be thrown open to you, Sir, in order to show you that I have no fear. By what authority do you demand the liberation of the persons committed to my charge?”

“I have no authority for the demand I make,” repliedOsbert, “but I have the power to enforce compliance, and that must suffice. You have done well in throwing open your gates to us, Lord Cardinal, for we design you no injury. Let Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver, both of whom I see with you, be delivered up to us, and we will trouble you no further.”

“And what will you do if I refuse?” said the Cardinal, sternly.

“We will take them,” rejoined Osbert. “But I beseech your Eminence not to compel us to have recourse to violence.”

“Hear me, misguided man,” said Pole; “and hear me all of ye,” he continued, addressing the insurgents in a louder tone, “I will not affect to misunderstand the character in which you come. You are rebels and traitors to the Queen, and have risen in arms against her.”

“None would be more loyal and devoted subjects of her Majesty than we, were our rights and liberties respected,” said Osbert: “but we have thrown off our allegiance because we will not submit to be governed by a Spanish king. We will not suffer our preachers and pastors to be burnt at the stake as heretics and infidels, nor our country to be enslaved. But we have not come hither to make known our grievances to your Eminence, or to ask for redress, which we well know we cannot obtain from you. We have not come hither to do you injury of any sort, for we hold you in profound respect, and wish there were many of your creed like you. Our object is to liberate all prisoners for religion, and we therefore require the release of the two persons in your custody.”

“Before you proceed to extremities,” rejoined Pole, “let me counsel you to pause and consider what you are about. You are engaged in a rash enterprise, which will in no way benefit your cause, but will infallibly lead to your destruction. By this outbreak you will give your rulers a plea for further oppression. I do not hesitate to say that I am averse to religious persecution, and would gladly see an end put to it, but this is not the plan to pursue. In a few hours your outbreak will be crushed, and then the party you represent will be worse off than ever. To all such as are peaceably disposed among you, whose families are dear to them, andwho would avoid bloodshed and ignominious death, I would say disperse quietly, go to your homes, and come not forth again on a like pretext. To you, Osbert Clinton, who have been unwise enough to place yourself at the head of this insurrection, I must hold other language. Your only safety is in flight. A price will be set on your head, and, if taken, you will die the death of a traitor.”

“I am aware of it,” replied Osbert. “But I have sworn to free my country and my religion, or perish in the attempt. I have no thoughts of flight, neither will my followers desert me. But we have talked long enough. You know our determination. Are we to have the prisoners peaceably, or must we take them by force?”

“I should be loth to provoke you to bloodshed,” replied the Cardinal. “Here are the two prisoners, as you see. I will place no restraint upon them. If they choose to go with you, it is well. If not, you will depart without them.”

“I readily agree to the terms, and thank your Eminence for sparing me the necessity of violence,” replied Osbert. “I do not think they will hesitate. Derrick Carver, you have heard what has passed. We wait for you.”

But, to Osbert’s great surprise, the enthusiast did not move.

“I cannot go unless I am set free by the Cardinal,” he said.

“How?” cried Osbert.

“His Eminence suffered me to go forth on my promise to return,” replied Carver, “and I will now prove to him that I am to be relied on.”

“I cannot prevent your departure,” said Pole; “neither can I set you free.”

“Then I stay,” replied Carver.

“I am not disappointed in you,” observed Pole, approvingly.

“If such be your determination when freedom is offered you, you must have taken leave of your senses,” said Osbert. “Constance, I call upon you—and shall not, I am sure, call in vain.”

“I cannot leave the good Cardinal, who has sheltered and protected me, without his consent, even at your bidding, Osbert,” she replied.

“And my consent must be refused,” said Pole. “Alas! misguided man,” he continued to Osbert. “You little know what you have done. Just as the King has assented to your union with Constance, you yourself raise an insuperable obstacle to it. Now Constance is lost to you for ever.”

“It is too true, Osbert!—it is too true,” she cried. “Why did you come hither thus?”

“Ah! why?” he cried, striking his head with his clenched hand. “Perdition on my folly!”

“Save yourself by instant flight—that is the best advice I can give you,” said the Cardinal.

“Desert my friends—never!” exclaimed Osbert. “The die is cast, and I must stand the issue. Constance, by all the love you profess to bear me, I implore you to come with me.”

“Alas! alas! I cannot obey you,” she rejoined.

“Then I will carry you off in spite of your resistance,” cried Osbert. “Forward, friends, forward!”

Some few advanced at the summons, but the majority, upon whom the Cardinal’s harangue, combined with subsequent circumstances, had produced a powerful impression, held back.

As Osbert stepped forward, Rodomont and his two comrades placed themselves in his way.

“Back, misguided man!” cried the Cardinal. “Another step, and you rush on certain destruction. The sanctity of this asylum shall not be violated with impunity.”

Just then loud shouts were heard, and some of the insurgents rushing forth to see what was the matter, immediately returned to say that a large number of the royal guard were landing from boats, and that some of them were already on the wharf.

“What shall we do?” cried several voices.

“Give them battle,” rejoined Osbert, in a loud voice. “Farewell, Constance,” he added; “if I fall, think that I came to save you. Now, friends, to the wharf!—to the wharf!”

Hereupon, all the insurgents, headed by Osbert, rushed forth simultaneously from the archway, shouting, “Down with King Philip!—down with the Pope!”

As soon as they were gone, the gates were closed by order of the Cardinal.

Some thirty or forty archers had already disembarked from the boats that had brought them, and others were leaping ashore, as Osbert and his partisans appeared on the wharf. Fierce shouts were raised on both sides, and in another instant a desperate conflict commenced. By a sudden dash, Osbert hoped to drive the enemy into the river; but the archers stood their ground well, and being quickly reinforced by their comrades from the boats, they not only repelled the attack made upon them, but forced the insurgents to retire.

It soon became evident to Rodomont and his lieutenants, who had mounted to the summit of the gateway to watch the conflict, that it must speedily terminate in favour of the archers, who were more than a match for their brave but undisciplined opponents. And so it turned out. In less than ten minutes the conflict was over, and the insurgents dispersed or made captive. Osbert fought desperately to the last, but finding it in vain to struggle longer, followed by three or four others, among whom were Udal and Rufford, he leaped into a boat, and, pushing off, was borne swiftly down the river.

Half-a-dozen other boats, manned by archers, instantly started in pursuit, and frequent shots were fired at the fugitives. Whether any of these took effect could not be ascertained by Rodomont and his comrades, who watched the chase with great interest from the battlements; but, at all events, the flying barque held on its course, and seemed to gain upon the others. At last, pursued and pursuers disappeared from view.

“As the Queen’s loyal subject I ought not to wish well to a traitor and a rebel,” remarked Rodomont, “and yet I cannot help hoping that Osbert Clinton has escaped.”

In this wish both his comrades concurred.

End of the Fifth Book.

End of the Fifth Book.

End of the Fifth Book.

BOOK VI.THE LEWES MARTYR.

OF THE PARTING BETWEEN DERRICK CARVER AND CONSTANCE.

OF THE PARTING BETWEEN DERRICK CARVER AND CONSTANCE.

OF THE PARTING BETWEEN DERRICK CARVER AND CONSTANCE.

The attempt made by the conspirators to cause a general rising proved completely abortive. Stafford and his party received some accessions to their numbers as they marched along, but before they reached Charing Cross they were attacked and dispersed by a troop of mounted arquebusiers, who issued from Whitehall. Several persons were arrested, among whom were the two officers of the Princess Elizabeth’s household, Peckham and Werne, but the ringleaders managed to escape. Next day, Stafford, Dudley, Kingston, Udal, Osbert Clinton, and the rest of the party, were publicly proclaimed as outlaws, rebels, traitors, and disturbers of the peace, and a large reward offered for their capture.

Nothing, however, was said about the French ambassador. Only to Gardiner did Philip avow that he had been secretly present with Father de Castro at the meeting in the crypt, and the Chancellor counselled him not to allow this circumstance to transpire publicly, as they had proof enough against the conspirators without it; above all, Gardiner wasopposed to any proceedings being taken against De Noailles. Thus the wily ambassador escaped with impunity as on previous occasions. A strict watch, however, was kept upon his movements.

It was confidently anticipated, both by the King and Gardiner, that before many days all the chief conspirators would be arrested, but in this expectation they were disappointed. No traces of any of them could be discovered. Some doubts were entertained as to the fate of Osbert Clinton. Two persons were shot in the boat in which he escaped from Lambeth, and their bodies thrown into the Thames, and it was thought he was one of them; but this was by no means clear.

While the search for the leaders of the outbreak was thus being actively, though unsuccessfully, prosecuted, Peckham and Werne were taken to the Tower and put to the torture, in order to compel them to accuse the Princess Elizabeth of complicity in the affair, but nothing could be wrung from them, and, with twenty other luckless personages who had been captured at the same time, they were hanged, drawn, and quartered, and their heads set upon the north gateway of London Bridge.

Meanwhile, the religious persecution continued with unabated rigour. Bishop Hooper, with two others, had undergone martyrdom at different places, and six more prisoners, excommunicated by Bonner, and delivered over to the civil power, were about to perish in the same manner.

Conscious of the odium attaching to these sanguinary measures, Gardiner prudently resigned his post at the ecclesiastical tribunal to Bonner, who thenceforward acted as supreme judge, and was undeterred by scruples of any sort.

A momentary check was, however, given to his severity from an unexpected quarter. From the various manifestations made towards him by the Protestant party, and from other circumstances, Philip could not fail to perceive that if he took any further part in these barbarous proceedings, he should raise up a host of determined enemies, so he caused Father Alfonso to preach publicly, before him and the court, a sermon strongly condemnatory of religious persecution. The plan completely answered the King’s expectations, it being felt that such a sermon could not have been preachedwithout his sanction, and it was argued, therefore, that he must disapprove of the course pursued by Bonner.

The effect of this remarkable discourse—remarkable, indeed, as emanating from one who had been designated “The Scourge of Heresy”—was to stay the bitter persecution for a while, but, though momentarily checked, it revived with a greater fury than before. The six unfortunate persons excommunicated by Bonner were consigned to the flames, and urged to greater activity by the Marquis of Winchester, and other members of the council, the zealous prelate looked out for fresh victims.

Bonner had long burned to wreak his vengeance upon Derrick Carver, and was at last able to gratify his desire. Having procured a warrant from the Queen for the deliverance up to him of the prisoner, who was still confined in the Lollards’ Tower, he immediately acted upon it. Before he was taken away, Carver, by permission of the Cardinal, was allowed to bid farewell to Constance Tyrrell. The interview took place in the Post Room in the Lollards’ Tower, and in order that there might be no check upon their freedom of discourse, they were left alone together.

“Daughter,” said Carver, who appeared more subdued than usual, “I am about to win the crown of martyrdom for which I have so long striven, and to inscribe my name upon that scroll which shall hereafter be a guide to our Church. In quitting you for a while, I expect you to remain stedfast in the faith. Be not shaken by the arguments of the Cardinal, who, though a good man, has been brought up in superstition and idolatry, and cannot free himself from the errors of his creed.”

“Have no fear for me,” replied Constance. “I shall soon follow in the same path you are about to tread.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Carver, with an irrepressible shudder. “Oh! Constance, while alone in my cell, I have communed with myself, sounding my breast to its depths, and weighing every thought and action, and I reproach myself that I have led you too far. I have kindled a holy fervour in your breast like that which animates my own, and which incites you to bear witness to your faith by death.”

“True. But surely you should rejoice that you have kindled such a flame,” she rejoined.

“No; I would quench it,” he cried. “Seek not martyrdom. Rush not upon fiery torments—but live—live a godly life.”

“These words are strange from you, who have so often painted the glories of martyrdom to me, and urged me to share them with you.”

“I repent that I did so,” he rejoined. “Were you to suffer with me, your torments would afflict me a thousand times more than my own. ’Twere terrible that a frame so fair as yours should be consumed by fire. It must not be. You are young and beautiful. You love, and are beloved. Live and be happy. Live for Osbert Clinton.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Constance, “I know not if Osbert still lives. It is thought he perished on that fatal night when he came here to liberate us. He has not been heard of since. But if he lives, it is as a proscribed rebel, with a price set on his head, and if he be taken, his doom is certain. I have nothing left but to die.”

“No, you must live,” said Carver, solemnly. “Osbert Clinton is not dead. He did not perish on that disastrous night, as you suppose. I have seen and spoken with him at the window of my cell, which he reached as he did when you, dear daughter, were its occupant. He and his friends are not disheartened by the ill success of their enterprise. It was rash and precipitate, and failed in consequence. But they are planning another insurrection, and I pray Heaven to crown it with success, since it has for its aim the restoration of our religion and the downfall of Philip!”

“I rejoice to hear that Osbert still lives,” said Constance; “but I fear these plots will eventually conduct him to the scaffold.”

“If he should so perish, then seek for a martyr’s crown, if you will,” said Carver; “but while he lives, live for him. Something tells me you will yet be united.”

“I dare not hope so,” she rejoined.

“If my last prayers will avail to ensure your happiness, you shall have them,” said Carver. “And now we must part. Once more I exhort you to continue stedfast in the faith. But be not influenced by the desire of vain-glory, which, perchance, may be my own besetting sin. And now receive my blessing!”

And as she bent before him, he spread his arms over her head, and pronounced a solemn benediction.

There was then a deep silence, broken only by Constance’s sobs.

“Weep not, dear daughter,” he said. “Our parting ought to be joyous rather than sad, seeing that my trials are well-nigh over, and I am about to reap my reward. Farewell!” he added, taking her hand, and pressing his lips to it. “Forget not what I have said to you.”

“Fear me not!” she rejoined, sinking upon a bench. “Farewell!”

Carver cast a compassionate look at her, and then striding resolutely towards the door, he called out that he was ready, whereupon Mallet instantly appeared.

Without hazarding another glance at Constance, he then quitted the chamber, and was taken by Mallet to the gate, where he was delivered to the officers sent for him by Bonner.

A barge awaited him, and in this conveyance he was taken to Paul’s Wharf. Thence he was escorted to the consistory at Saint Paul’s, where Bonner was sitting in judgment with the Lord Mayor, the sheriffs, and several members of the council.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS TAKEN TO LEWES.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS TAKEN TO LEWES.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS TAKEN TO LEWES.

When Derrick Carver was brought before the tribunal, Bonner eyed him with a smile of malignant satisfaction, and observed to Sheriff Woodrooffe, who was sitting near him,—

“At last I have got this pestilent fellow, whom the Cardinal has so long screened from justice. He shall not escape now. I will deal roundly with him.”

On this, he caused the minutes of the prisoner’s previous examinations to be read to him by an officer in the court, which being done, Bonner said, in a bitter and derisivetone.tone.

“Such were the detestable and damnable opinions professed by thee, Derrick Carver, when thou wert last interrogated in the Lollards’ Tower; but doubtless the exhortations and persuasions of the Lord Cardinal have wrought a beneficial change, and thou art now willing to confess thine errors and abjure them.”

“My opinions have undergone no change,” replied Carver. “But if any Romanist could have converted me, it would be Cardinal Pole.”

“Ah! you admit so much,” cried Bonner. “Why should Cardinal Pole prevail with you more than others? Hath he more zeal—more devotion—more theological learning than others have?”

“I know not whether he hath more zeal and learning than your lordship, but he has more Christian charity,” repliedCarver. “He understands the Gospel, and is guided by its precepts, which you are not.”

“Belike you deem his Eminence less rigid, less orthodox than I am?” said Bonner.

“My tenets are nothistenets,” replied Carver; “yet I hold him to be a good man, though, unhappily, blinded to the truth. Your lordship may be the more orthodox Catholic of the two, but you are the worse man.”

“I thank thee for the admission, thou foul-mouthed knave,” cried Bonner. “You all hear that he charges the Cardinal with unsoundness of opinion,” he added to the court.

“I charge thee with attempting to pervert my words,” retorted Carver. “I meant to say that Cardinal Pole is the chief living light and glory of the Church of Rome, whereas thou art its shame and reproach. In after times, when this bitter persecution of the faithful is spoken of, Reginald Pole will be remembered for mildness and toleration, while thou wilt be execrated as the ’bloody Bishop Bonner’—a name that shall cling to thee for ever!”

“I would rather have thy censure than thy commendation,” rejoined Bonner. “Had the Cardinal treated thee with due severity, thou wouldst never have lauded his virtues. But thou hast said enough to convince us thou art obstinate and impenitent. Therefore I shall not take up the time of the court by questioning thee further. Down on thy knees while sentence of excommunication is pronounced upon thee.”

“I kneel only to Heaven,” replied the prisoner, firmly.

At a sign from the bishop, two officers seized him, and, in spite of his resistance, forced him upon his knees, detaining him in this posture while the sentence was read to him by Bonner. This done, he was permitted to rise, and the officers left him.

“Thou art now accursed,” pursued Bonner, “and henceforward, if any man shall eat with thee, or drink with thee, or otherwise help thee or comfort thee, he will be a partaker in the curse.”

“You have put me out of the communion of a Church which I have quitted of my own accord for these ten years,” said Carver. “As to your anathemas, they affright me not. May they recoil with added strength on your own head.”

“Away, thou miserable blasphemer!” cried Bonner, furiously. “I have done with thee for ever.”

“No, not for ever, thou unrighteous judge,” rejoined Carver. “I summon thee to appear with me before the Judgment Throne of Heaven to answer for the blood thou art about to shed.”

So awful was the tone in which these words were uttered, that a profound impression was upon all the hearers, and even Bonner trembled. But he quickly shook off his trepidation, and exclaimed,—

“The gates of Heaven will be fast closed to you, unless you repent. You will now be delivered to the sheriffs, and by them will be taken to Newgate, where you will remain until after your trial. If you are condemned, as I nothing doubt you will be, you will be burned at Lewes, from the neighbourhood of which place you come, and where we learn there are many tainted with false doctrines, to whom your death may prove a salutary warning.”

“It will strengthen them in their faith, when they see how a believer in the Gospel can die,” rejoined Carver.

“Away with him!” cried Bonner, impatiently. “Away with him!”

On this, the prisoner was removed from the court, and conveyed with two others, who had been examined before his arrival at the consistory, to Newgate.

By command of Sheriff Woodrooffe, who accompanied him to the prison, he was placed in a noisome dungeon, and only allowed bread and water. After a few days’ confinement, he was brought up for trial, and, as had been foretold by Bonner, condemned to death at the stake.

Orders were then given by Sheriff Woodrooffe that he should be taken to Lewes, under a sufficient guard, for immediate execution, and on the following day the little cavalcade set out on its journey, stopping for the first night at Croydon. The inhabitants of the place flocked forth to see the prisoner, and many of them expressed great commiseration for him, but he was not permitted by the guard to speak to them, or to receive any refreshments offered him.

“Avoid him!” cried Father Josfrid, a Dominican friar by whom he was accompanied; “he isexcommunicated,excommunicated,and if ye give him aught, ye will share in the heavy curse under which he labours.”

From the exhortations of this zealous monk Carver was never for a moment free, though they produced no other effect upon him than annoyance. The escort was commanded by an officer named Brand, who had been selected for the business by Sheriff Woodrooffe on account of his hatred to the Protestant party. He was a sullen, sour-tempered personage, and showed his ill will to the prisoner both by word and blow. Carver, however, bore this harsh usage without a murmur.

On the second day the party reached East Grinstead, where they passed the night, a cellar with a truss of straw laid on the floor being allotted to Carver; and starting early on the following morning, they reached Ditchling about noon, and, after an hour’s halt, commenced the ascent of the downs.

On arriving at Ditchling, the prisoner earnestly besought Captain Brand to take him to Brightelmstone, in order that he might bid farewell to his wife and children, and aged mother; but the petition was refused, the officer declaring he would not go half-a-dozen miles out of his way to pleasure a heretic.

“They can come and see you burned at Lewes to-morrow, if they list,” he added, with a savage grin.

Hearing what passed, a young man, mounted on a strong iron-grey horse, who had entered the inn-yard almost immediately after the little cavalcade, inquired the nearest road to Brightelmstone, and immediately galloped off in that direction.

Having mounted the steep hill-side, and passed Ditchling Beacon, the party proceeded along the brow of the downs, whence such magnificent views of the weald of Sussex are obtained, though these now received little attention, until they came to Mount Harry, on whose verdant slopes was fought the great battle between Henry III. and the Barons under Simon de Montfort, when the ancient and picturesque town of Lewes, with its towering castle and ruined priory, its numerous churches, gates, and circling walls, burst upon their view.

“Welcome! thou city of refuge,” exclaimed Carver, stretching out his hands towards the town. “Thou artgladsome to mine eyes as was Ramoth Gilead to the fugitives from Jordan. There shall I be at rest.”

“There will be a rare bonfire in that old town to-morrow,” observed Captain Brand, in a jeering tone, to the prisoner—“a bonfire such as the townsfolk have seldom seen, and which they are likely long to recollect. ’Twill be a grand spectacle to those who look on,” he added with stern significance.

“I had rather be the chief actor in the spectacle than a beholder of it,” replied Carver; “and I trust those who witness it will long remember it.”

On this, Brand rode on, and Father Josfrid resumed the exhortation which he had been obliged for the nonce to suspend.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS PLACED IN A VAULT BENEATHTHE STAR INN AT LEWES.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS PLACED IN A VAULT BENEATHTHE STAR INN AT LEWES.

HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS PLACED IN A VAULT BENEATH

THE STAR INN AT LEWES.

At the period of our history, Lewes, as we have just intimated, was surrounded by walls built of stone, and of considerable strength, though few traces of these fortifications are now left. At the west gate of the town the party was met by the high sheriff, Sir Richard de Warren, and Master Piddinghoe, the headborough, attended by a large posse of men armed with halberds. Besides these, there were many burgesses and priests, who had come forth to see the prisoner. At this place Derrick Carver was delivered over to the high sheriff by Captain Brand, who at the same time handed to Sir Richard the warrant for the prisoner’s execution.

“All shall be ready for the ceremonial to-morrow morning,” said De Warren. “We cannot lodge him in the castle, but we will place him in a vault beneath the Star Inn, where he will be perfectly secure.”

“I have fulfilled mine office in delivering him into your hands, Sir Richard,” replied Brand. “But my orders from Sheriff Woodrooffe are to tarry here till the sentence is carried out.”

“You will not be detained beyond to-morrow morning, Sir,” said De Warren.

On this the party passed through the gate, and began to move slowly down the High Street, which formed a gradual descent towards the centre of the town. On either side thestreet were habitations of various sizes, but all of quaint and picturesque architecture. As the train advanced, the inhabitants came forth to see the prisoner, to many of whom he was personally known, and these loudly expressed their commiseration, and their abhorrence of his persecutors.

By the time the train had reached the massive Norman gate of the castle, so large a crowd had collected that the progress of the party was impeded, and the high sheriff’s attendants had to use the poles of their halberds to effect a passage. In spite, however, of the exertions of the officers and men, the throng could not be kept back, but forced themselves up to the prisoner, and catching hold of his garments, and clinging to his horse, besought his blessing.

“Stand back!—touch him not!” cried Father Josfrid. “He is excommunicated.”

Little attention however, was paid to the priest. In vain Carver besought those nearest him to retire—in vain the officers commanded them to stand back—they would not stir. At last, force was employed, they were thrust violently aside, and amid shrieks of terror and groans and yells of indignation, Carver was hurried along, and finally conveyed through a gateway into a large yard at the rear of the Star Inn. As soon as this had been accomplished the gate was shut, and a guard placed in front of it.

This ancient hostel, which still exists, though it has undergone many transformations, was then a large and substantial structure, capable of accommodating a great number of guests, and was managed by Dame Dunster, a buxom widow, whose boast it was that the best mutton in Sussex, the fattest capons, the most perfectly seasoned venison pasties, the most delicious stewed eels, and the brightest sack and claret, were to be had at the Star at Lewes. Besides these good things, and many others, those who lodged with Dame Dunster had the luxury of linen white as snow, and fragrant of lavender. Nothing, in short, was wanting at the Star—a comely and good-humoured landlady, young and not ill-favoured handmaidens, and active drawers—these for the guests, while for their steeds there were good stables and good provender.

Beneath the hostel there existed, and indeed still exists, a large vault, wherein, as the high sheriff had intimated to Captain Brand, it was intended to place Derrick Carver forthe night. The subterranean chamber was of great strength, the roof high and arched, and the walls of solid stone. It was of great antiquity, and had originally belonged to a monastic edifice. On one side, at a considerable height from the ground, was an unglazed window or aperture, contrived for the admission of air and light. This aperture was placed on a level with the street, and was secured by stout iron bars, fixed horizontally and close together. This singular vault is still much in the same state as we have described it, though it is now used for other purposes than as a place of detention of prisoners, being, in fact, a very cool and commodious cellar.

When Derrick Carver was taken into the inn-yard, as already related, he became so faint that he was obliged to sit down on a horse-block for a few minutes to recover himself. Noticing his feeble condition, Dame Dunster who had come forth to look at him, kindly sent for a cup of sack, and offered it to him. But Father Josfrid again interposed, and bade her take the wine away, if she would not fall under the same ban as the miserable wretch before her. But the kind-hearted hostess persisted, whereupon the priest snatched the cup from her, and dashed its contents on the ground.

“You must have a heart utterly void of compassion, or you could not act thus,” cried Dame Dunster to Father Josfrid. “You would see the poor man die, and not raise a hand to help him. It would be happy for him, indeed, if he were to die, as in that case he would escape further cruelty.”

“I am better now,” replied Derrick Carver, raising himself to his feet by a great effort. “I lack not the wine you would have given me to drink, but I thank you heartily for the kind intent, and invoke Heaven’s blessings upon your house.”

“Thy blessings will prove curses, thou outcast from Heaven,” cried the priest.

“Be not troubled by his words, good sister,” said Carver. “Be mindful of what I say to you. Avoid idolatry and superstition. Place your faith in the Gospel, and you shall live. Pray for me, sister, and I will pray for you.”

Dame Dunster and her maidens turned away weeping, while Carver descended a flight of stone steps leading to thevault, the door of which being unlocked he was rudely thrust into the subterranean chamber. A few trusses of straw for a couch, with bread-and-water for sustenance, being supplied him, he was left alone, and the door locked outside.

After glancing round the vault, noting its size, and the solidity of its walls, Carver turned his attention to the barred opening, already described as being on a level with the street. Through this opening noises reached his ears, but no one was allowed to approach and hold converse with him, a guard being placed outside the inn.

Carver took a few turns in the vault, and then sitting down upon a wooden bench, which constituted its sole furniture, took out his Bible, which had been happily spared him, and began to read it. He had been occupied in this manner for some time, when the strokes of a pickaxe dealt upon the stones in the street disturbed him, and he raised his head to listen. By-and-by the clatter of a shovel was heard—then there was a great noise as if several men were carrying a heavy mass, which appeared to be plunged into a hole that had just been digged; and then there was a dull, dead, thumping sound, as if the earth were being beaten down by a ram.

Suspecting what was going forward, but desiring to know the truth, Carver placed the bench immediately below the window, and, mounting upon it, raised himself so that he could just look through the bars into the street. He then found that his conjectures were correct, and that the noises he had heard were caused by men who were planting the stake in the ground to which he was to be attached on the morrow. With a mournful curiosity he watched them at their work, and did not withdraw till the stake was firmly secured, and a heavy iron chain attached to it. He had just got down, when he heard Captain Brand, whose harsh voice he instantly recognised, giving directions to the men.

“Take care that plenty of fagots are provided,” he said; “and, furthermore, I must have an empty tar-barrel large enough to hold the prisoner. He boasts of his firmness,” added Brand with a bitter laugh. “We will see whether we cannot shake it.”

It would seem that he was likely to be disappointed in his expectation, for Carver heard the order given without theslightest feeling of dread, but calmly resumed the perusal of the sacred volume at the point where he had laid it aside. Neither did he desist until it grew dark, and he was unable to read longer.

He then knelt down and prayed fervently, continuing his vigils until long after midnight, when weariness overcame him, and flinging himself upon the straw, he presently fell asleep.

He was roused from his slumbers by a stone which fell upon the floor of the vault not far from where he was lying, and as he stirred he heard a voice calling to him from the barred window, and looking in that direction, he could just distinguish the figure of a man.

“Who speaks?” he demanded rising to his feet.

“A friend,” replied the other. “Come nearer—quick!”

“The voice seems familiar to me,” observed Carver, “and if I did not deem it impossible, I should say it was——”

“It is he you suppose,” interrupted the speaker. “Come as near me as you can, and come quickly, for I may be discovered.”

Thus adjured, Carver mounted the bench, and was then only separated by the bars from the person outside, whom he now recognised as Osbert Clinton.

“Why have you incurred this danger on my account, oh, rash young man?” he cried.

“I have somewhat to impart,” replied Osbert; “but I must be brief, for though the man on guard has quitted his post, he may return. In a word, then, I shall make an attempt to deliver you from these bloodthirsty tigers to-morrow. I have half a dozen friends with me, and when you are brought forth for execution, we will fall upon the guard and set you free.”

“I forbid you to make the attempt, my son,” replied Carver. “I am fully prepared to die, and would not accept a pardon from my enemies were it offered me. By freeing me as you propose, you would wrest from me the crown of martyrdom which I hope to win at yonder stake. My race is almost run, and the goal is at hand. I have done with the world, and would not be brought back to it. My last sufferings will be sharp, but they will be speedily over, and I rejoice that I am able to bear them. Again, I say, this attempt must not be made.”

“Since you will have it so, I must needs obey,” rejoined Osbert, in a mournful tone. “And yet I would try to move you.”

“It would be in vain,” said Carver. “Our moments are precious. Let them not be wasted in idle discussion. I will not fly from the death prepared for me. The stake is ready, and shall not want the victim. I know you will readily do me a service. Seek out my poor wife and children at Brightelmstone, and bid them farewell for me.”

“I have already seen them,” replied Osbert. “Your wife is ill—too ill to leave the house—and I enjoined her not to come here to-morrow.”

“You did right—quite right,” rejoined Carver. “What of my aged mother?” he demanded, in a voice of profound emotion.

“I ought to have no concealment from you now,” said Osbert. “Your mother is no more.”

“I thought so,” replied Carver, after a pause. “She appeared to me just now during my slumber. Her countenance wore a heavenly smile, and methought her lips opened to address me, but I could not catch the words she uttered. Her spirit was still hovering nigh me when you woke me from the blissful dream.”

There was a deep, solemn pause, after which Carver continued: “And now, Osbert Clinton, I have some counsel to give you. The success of the great enterprise on which you are engaged will depend on the prudence with which it is conducted. Be not rash. Wait for a favourable opportunity to strike the blow, and take heed that you do not place confidence in traitors.”

“We expect men and money from France,” said Osbert.

“France will play you false, as she has done before,” replied Carver.

“But we are obliged to trust to that power, since we have now no other resources,” said Osbert. “All our possessions have been seized and sequestered, and we have not wherewithal to pay the host we could raise. We have men, but not money. We lack as many chests of gold as were brought from Spain by Philip when he landed at Southampton.”

“What became of that Spanish bullion?” demanded Carver.

“Part of it has been expended in bribes to our venal nobles,” replied Osbert. “But the rest is deposited in the Tower.”

“Is there much of the treasure left?” inquired Carver.

“Half is left, as I understand,” replied Osbert.

“Why not seize upon it, then?” cried the other. “’Tis lawful spoil. Instead of being employed to corrupt mercenary nobles to enslave their country, let it be used to free the land from Spanish thraldom and Popish tyranny. Have no scruples. Seize upon it, I say. It was brought into England to forge golden fetters for our rulers, let it be turned into avenging swords.”

“That treasure, indeed, would accomplish all we seek, if we could obtain possession of it,” said Osbert. “But I have told you it is safely deposited in the Tower.”

“And I say to you that it must be your business to get it thence,” rejoined Carver.

“You would not have me lay siege to the Tower to obtain it?” said Osbert.

“By stratagem you may accomplish what you desire,” returned Carver. “I have no plan to suggest; but if you weigh the matter carefully over, one is sure to occur to you.”

“I will give it due consideration,” said Osbert. “Have you aught more to say?”

“Only to wish you happiness with her you love,” replied Carver. “My last words to Constance were to urge her to look forward confidently to the day when she will be united to you. For that day will come. It may not come so soon as you anticipate and desire, but come it will. One word more, and I have done. Should this insurrection prosper, and your enemies fall into your hands, let no harm befal Cardinal Pole. And now tarry no longer, my son. Take my blessing with you, and depart.”

“It is time,” replied Osbert. “I hear the footsteps of the guard. I shall be near you at the stake. Adieu!”

So saying, he disappeared, while Carver, descending from the bench, knelt down and prayed fervently.

His devotions ended, he arose, and bethinking him ofthe vision he had seen during his slumber, he called out, “Spirit of her from whom I derived my being, if thou art indeed permitted to visit me, and art nigh me now, as I think, I adjure thee to manifest thyself to me in the same angelic form, and with the same angelic aspect, as I beheld thee in my dream. Appear before me in this celestial guise if thou canst, and cheer and comfort me with thy smile!”

At the close of this invocation, which he uttered with great fervour, he looked around, half hoping that the spirit would become visible, but nothing met his gaze except the gloomy walls of his prison. He fancied, however, that he heard something like a soft, low sigh, and felt a breath of cool air upon his brow.

“It may not be,” he said. “Thou canst not reveal thyself to me, or mine eyes are unable to discern thee. But I must have patience. In a few short hours I shall be as thou art, and we can then hold the communion together which is denied us now.”

He then resumed his devotions, and continued in earnest prayer till dawn glimmered through the bars of the window, and ere long filled the vault with light.

Then some slight stir began to be heard in the street, and by-and-by those on guard peered in at the bars of the window. They beheld the prisoner seated upon the bench, with the Bible open on his knee, profoundly occupied in its perusal.

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