“It was,” rejoined the abbot.  “And that of William Haydocke, also Monk of Whalley, closed the list.”

“The unrelenting tyrant!” muttered the other monk.  “But these terms could not be accepted?”

“Assuredly not,” replied Paslew; “they were rejected with scorn.  But the negotiations were continued by Sir Ralph Ellerker and Sir Robert Bowas, who were to claim on our part a free pardon for all; the establishment of a Parliament and courts of justice at York; the restoration of the Princess Mary to the succession; the Pope to his jurisdiction; and our brethren to their houses.  But such conditions will never be granted.  With my consent no armistice should have been agreed to.  We are sure to lose by the delay.  But I was overruled by the Archbishop of York and the Lord Darcy.  Their voices prevailed against the Abbot of Whalley—­or, if it please you, the Earl of Poverty.”

“It is the assumption of that derisive title which has drawn upon you the full force of the king’s resentment, lord abbot,” observed Father Eastgate.

“It may be,” replied the abbot.  “I took it in mockery of Cromwell and the ecclesiastical commissioners, and I rejoice that they have felt the sting.  The Abbot of Barlings called himself Captain Cobbler, because, as he affirmed, the state wanted mending like old shoon.  And is not my title equally well chosen?  Is not the Church smitten with poverty?  Have not ten thousand of our brethren been driven from their homes to beg or to starve?  Have not the houseless poor, whom we fed at our gates, and lodged within our wards, gone away hungry and without rest?  Have not the sick, whom we would have relieved, died untended by the hedge-side?  I am the head of the poor in Lancashire, the redresser of their grievances, and therefore I style myself Earl of Poverty.  Have I not done well?”

“You have, lord abbot,” replied Father Eastgate.

“Poverty will not alone be the fate of the Church, but of the whole realm, if the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical counsellors are carried forth,” pursued the abbot.  “Cromwell, Audeley, and Rich, have wisely ordained that no infant shall be baptised without tribute to the king; that no man who owns not above twenty pounds a year shall consume wheaten bread, or eat the flesh of fowl or swine without tribute; and that all ploughed land shall pay tribute likewise.  Thus the Church is to be beggared, the poor plundered, and all men burthened, to fatten the king, and fill his exchequer.”

“This must be a jest,” observed Father Haydocke.

“It is a jest no man laughs at,” rejoined the abbot, sternly; “any more than the king’s counsellors will laugh at the Earl of Poverty, whose title they themselves have created.  But wherefore comes not the signal?  Can aught have gone wrong?  I will not think it.  The whole country, from the Tweed to the Humber, and from the Lune to the Mersey, is ours; and, if we but hold together, our cause must prevail.”