“Ay,” said he of his grace’s right hand, “Abbot Paslew was of too great weight in the scale of events to be left to choose his own side of the balance.  I am right fain of his company, and in troth he can use the persuasions well,—­the thumbscrews and tight boots upon occasion.”

“Master Aske,” replied the archbishop, “if the sons that our mother hath suckled and nourished from her own grace and bounty were every of them as true as thou art, who yet receivest not of her temporal favours, then would her kingdom be enlarged, and her arms should outstretch to the utmost verge and compass of all visible things.  But there be evil men and seducers abroad, traitors to their altar and their faith.”  Here he paused, but presently continued, “My friends, though our religion be meek and lowly, yet does it not deny to us the comforts but sparingly scattered through this vain and perishing world.”

His grace here filled a cup of spiced sack, inviting Paslew to partake of their humble entertainment.  Bewildered and intimidated, he yet obeyed with all due reverence and courtesy.

“Confusion to the heretic king!” cried he on the left of the archbishop, filling his glass, and at the same time taking especial note that the guests should repeat this bold and startling treason.

“Lord D’Arcy,” said one of the guests, “thou hast imbibed that wish so oft in thy drink, that should the king catch thee he may find it branded in thy four quarters, when they are cut up to ornament his majesty’s posterns.”

“And what might he find on thine, Norton?” said the fiery leader.

“A cook’s rolling-pin and a mutton pasty.”  A loud laugh here announced the hit, of which this sally was the bearer, it being levelled directly at the well-known propensities of the personage to whom it was addressed.

“Come, friends all,” said the archbishop; “let not the gibe and jest go round; there be matters of graver import that should occupy us this night.  To-morrow, let the elements be propitious, and the day is won.”

“Od’s life,” said Aske; “surely the rain will not again prevent us from passing the river, as it did in our last campaign.”

“If it do,” cried a deep and melancholy voice from the lower end of the table, “then will I say this Pilgrimage of Grace is the device of man, and not of God, and the work will not prosper.”

This ominous anticipation seemed to strike terror into the most stout-hearted.  “Foul fa’ the croaking raven!” said Aske.  “No good comes on’t, when the Lord of Ravenswood breaks from his usual silence.  Mischief follows, safe as the bolt after the flash.”

“Hush! my son,” said the archbishop to this bird of ill-omen; “thou speakest unwisely.  ’Tis not for us to adjudge the displeasure of Heaven upon slight testimonies.  He trieth our faith, when the dark cloud overshadoweth His mercy.  But let us not dishonour this good cause, and weaken our hands by indulging in such gloomy anticipations.  The night showeth little token of a change, and when I was last abroad, the river passed on, shallow and murmuring, over the ford.”