A fierce and terrible brightness, like the lurid flashes from his own torment, burst from his eye.  The very anger and malice he strove to quell made it burn still hotter.  His visage gathered blackness, cloud hurrying on cloud, like the grim billows of the storm across a glowing atmosphere.  Rapid was the transition.  Rage, apprehension, abhorrence,—­all that hate and malignity could express, threw their appalling shadows over his features.  Still the dark hints uttered by his visitor seemed to hold him in check.  Chafed, maddened, yet not daring to execute the vengeance he desired, he strode through the apartment with an uneasy and perturbed gait.  He paused at times, darting a look at the minister as if about to address him.  Suddenly he stood still, nerving his spirit to some awful question.

“My cousin John Harrington died in his own chamber.  In this house, God wot.  Thou didst shrive him at his last shift, and how sayest thou he was poisoned?”

“I said not aught so plainly; but thou hast spoken out.  Behold him!—­There!”—­The divine pointed his finger slowly round the apartment.  “Within a short space he cites thee to that bar where his presence will be a swift witness to thy doom!”

Had the spirit of the unfortunate heir of Hornby suddenly appeared, the Baron could not have followed the movement of the minister’s hand with greater dismay and astonishment.  The strong barrier of guilt seemed breaking down.  Conscience aroused, as if at once the veil that concealed his iniquities had been withdrawn, they rose in all their unmitigated horror and enormity.  An arrow, drawn at a venture, had pierced the joints of the harness.  He stood powerless and without defence—­motionless as the image of despair.  By a strange coincidence a thick white cloud seemed to coil itself heavily round the room.  Whether to the heated imaginations of the disputants this appearance might not present an image of the form then visible to their minds, it would be impossible to determine.  Suffice it to say, the effect was memorable, from whatever cause it was produced.

An altered man was the Baron Monteagle.  The arguments of this champion of the truth had in some measure prepared his mind for its reception.  Under his ministrations he felt gradually more enlightened.  His terrors were calmed.  Soon afterwards rose that noble structure, the chapel of Hornby, bearing on its front the following legend:—­

EDWARDUS STANLEY MILES, DNS.  MONTEAGLE, ME FIERI FECIT.

It is recorded that Sir Edward Stanley, Baron Monteagle, died in the faith he had once despised; and we trust he has found a place at the footstool of that Mercy whose interposition was not solicited in vain.

[Illustration:  GEORGE MARSH, THE MARTYR.]

GEORGE MARSH, THE MARTYR.

    “Heavy persecution shall arise
    Of all who in the worship persevere
    Of spirit and truth.”