that Latimer so often prayed.  Mary’s reign was a short one, but Elizabeth was spared to reign over England for the long period of forty-four years.  Foxe’s Book of Martyrs describes the horrible sufferings of many of these martyrs, and, though an awful book to read, was one of the few books extensively published in our early days, chained copies being placed in many churches, some of which we saw on our journey.

[Illustration:  BEAUMONT PALACE IN 1832:  THE BIRTHPLACE OF RICHARD I.]

A small group of excited people were standing near the Martyrs’ Memorial, and we passed several others in the city.  On inquiry we were informed that the body of a murdered woman had been found during the night, on the Banbury road.  On hearing this news I must confess to feeling some slight apprehension when I considered the strong prima facie case that could have been made against us:  our travel-stained appearance, faces bronzed almost to the colour of the red soil we had walked over, beards untrimmed and grown as nature intended them, clothes showing signs of wear and tear, our heavy oaken sticks with worn ferrules, and our suspicious and seedy-looking bags; our late arrival last night, and, above all, the fact that we had entered the town by the very road on which the murder had been committed!  What if we were arrested on suspicion!  I had been practically arrested under far less suspicious circumstances the previous year, when we were walking home from London.

[Illustration:  “THE HIGH,” WITH QUEEN’S COLLEGE.]

Just before reaching Nottingham we saw a large concourse of people in an open space some distance away from our road; out of curiosity we went to see what was going on, and found it to be a cricket match just finishing.  Two men in the crowd to whom we spoke told us that great interest was being taken in the match, as a man named Grace was taking part in the game.  We waited till the end, and came along with the two men towards the town.  We had to cross the bridge over the River Trent, and my brother had already crossed when he found I was not following.  So he turned back, and saw me talking to a policeman in the centre of the bridge.  “What’s the matter?” he shouted, and I replied, “He wants to look in my bag.”  My brother made use of some expression quite unusual to him, and a regular war of words ensued between him and the officer; as we declined to open the bag, he requested us to follow him to a small temporary police office that had been built on the side of the bridge.  Meantime a crowd of men had collected and followed us to the station; every pane of glass in the office windows was occupied by the faces of curious observers.  The officer quite lost his temper, saying that he had had men like us there before.  We asked him to break the bag open, but he declined to do so, and made himself very disagreeable, which caused my brother to remark afterwards that we ought to have thrown him over the parapet of the bridge into the river below,