As the great clock boomed out the hour of eight, two processions simultaneously approached the platform.  One swept out through the cathedral doors in all the pomp of power and majesty, the cardinal in scarlet robes, blazing with gems and gold, attended by innumerable dignitaries—­abbots and priors, bishops, deans, doctors, and lesser clergy, shining in damask and satin, a right goodly company.  For a while all eyes were so fixed upon this glittering array that there was scarce time to note the humble six, in their penitential robes, bare-footed, and carrying tapers, who appeared, attended by their jailers from the Fleet Prison, and were set upon the opposite platform, full in view of all.

It was not Cardinal Wolsey, but Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who delivered to them a fiery oration, descanting to them on the enormity of their offences, and calling upon them to abjure their hateful heresy.  His ringing voice carried all over the open space, though Anthony Dalaber could only catch an occasional phrase here and there, which perhaps was as well.  But the reply, if reply there were, from the penitents was quite inaudible, though Dr. Barnes was believed to have spoken a solemn recantation in the name of the six, and to declare that they only met the due reward of their sins.

Then came the final ceremony, the pacing round and round the fire, the casting into the flames, first the fagots, and then the books put ready for the burning.  The people held their breath whilst this was being done; but had observant eyes been fixed upon many of the faces of the crowd, they would have seen looks of fierce hatred directed towards the spot where the powerful cardinal sat aloft, whilst eager hands seemed ofttimes to be stretched out as though to clutch at the precious books, now being ruthlessly consigned to the flames.

At last Anthony Dalaber could stand it no longer.  Hastily thanking the honest citizen for the “goodly show” he had permitted him to witness, he slipped down into the street, and pushed his way through the throng anywhere, out of sight of the odious pageant of intolerance and bigotry which he had been witnessing.

“Had it been Luther’s books only, I could have stood it.  He is a man, and though a champion for truth, he may err, he does err.  And he speaks wild words which he contradicts himself.  But the Word of God!  Oh, that is too much!  To take it out of the hands of the poor and needy, who hunger to be fed, and to cast it to be burnt like the dung of the earth!  Surely God will look down!  Surely He will punish!  Oh, if I had wanted argument and reason for the step I will take in the future, yonder spectacle would have been enough!”

For many hours he wandered through the streets and lanes of the city, so intent on his own thoughts that he scarce noted the buildings and fine sights he passed by.  But his feet brought him back to the spot of the morning’s pageant, and towards evening he found himself looking upon the ashes of what had been the books brought with so much risk by the Hanse merchants and the Stillyard men, and so eagerly desired by the poorer people of the city.