“He was not called,” answered Arthur gravely; “some say he is too sick to appear, others that he has recanted, but has been spared joining in the procession because that he and two more are not able to walk.  Others, again, say that he will not abjure the errors with which he is charged, nor take part in the prescribed penance.  I have not been suffered to see him.  I know not how it may be.  But in sooth, if he be sick as they say, it were time they let him forth from his prison.  It is not right nor justice that men should be done to death in noisome dungeons when no crime has been proven against them.”

The girls’ faces were pale with horror and pity.

“Canst thou do nothing, Arthur?” pleaded Magdalen.  “Thou art rich, and powerful, and well known to so many.  Canst thou do nothing to aid them?”

“I will do what I can, once the act of penance be over,” he answered.  “Till then it is useless to stir, for they will seek to work upon them to the very last moment by threats, or by argument, or by entreaty.  Should they prove obstinate to the last, I know not what will befall.  But if they are like to perish in the prison, it may be that the dean’s word will prevail for their release.  He is grieved that one so godly in his life and conversation should suffer so cruelly.  When this act has been accomplished, belike they may listen to the words of his friends, unless the cruel will of the bishop prevail, and he is sent to a fiery death.”

It was a very quiet wedding on the morrow that united Magdalen Langton and Arthur Cole as man and wife.  They were married at an early hour in St. Mary’s Church, and set off that same day for the old manor house, which was to be their future home.  Freda could not, however, be persuaded to accompany them on that day.

“I must see the fire at Carfax,” she said; “I would see it with mine own eyes.  Afterwards I will come to you, and will bring Anthony with me; but not till I have seen this thing for myself.  I cannot help it.  I must be there.”

Magdalen entreated awhile, but Freda stood firm.

“I must see the fire at Carfax,” she answered; and at last they forbore to press her, knowing her mind was made up.

It wanted but a few days to Easter when the day came for which Freda had waited with feverish, sleepless eyes.  The sun rose clear and bright birds carolled in the gladness of their hearts; all nature was filled with the joy of happy springtide; but there was a heavy cloud resting upon Freda’s spirits.

“I will not blame him; I will speak no word of reproach.  In this hard strait should I have been more brave?  It may be he is doing what he believes most right.  I will not believe him unfaithful to his truer self.  Who can judge, save God alone, of what is the most right thing to do in these dark and troublous days?”

She rose and donned a black gown, and shrouded herself in a long cloak, the hood of which concealed her face.  She was very pale, and there were rings around her eyes that told of weeping and of vigil.  Oh, how she had prayed for Anthony, that he might be pardoned wherein he might sin, strengthened wherein he was weak, purified and enlightened in the inner man, and taught by the Holy Spirit of God!