“Before God, I did not!”—­but his voice shook as he answered.

Chris was gripping his courage, and at last spoke.

“We were told it was a free-will act, your Grace.”

Henry said nothing to this.  His eyes were rolling up and down the monk’s figure, with tight, thoughtful lips.  Cranmer looked desperately at Sir James.

“I did not know that, your Grace,” he said again.  “I only knew that this priest’s brother had been very active in your Grace’s business.”

Henry turned sharply.

“Eh?” he said.

Sir James’s hands rose and clasped themselves instinctively.  Cranmer again looked at him almost fiercely.

“Mr. Ralph Torridon was one of the Visitors,” explained the Archbishop nervously.

“And this fellow a monk!” cried the King.

“They must have met at Lewes, your Grace.”

“Ah! my Lord,” cried Sir James suddenly.  “I entreated you—­”

Henry turned on him suddenly.

“Tell us the tale, sir.  What is all this?”

Sir James took a faltering step forward, and then suddenly threw out his hands.

“Ah! your Grace, it is a bitter tale for a father to tell.  It is true, all of it.  My son here was a monk at Lewes.  He would not sign the surrender.  I—­I approved him for it.  I—­I was there when my son Ralph cast him out—­”

“God’s blood!” cried the King with a beaming face.  “The one brother cast the other out!”

Chris saw the Archbishop’s face suddenly lighten as he watched the King sideways.

“But I cannot bear that he should be saved for that!” went on the old man piteously.  “He was a good servant to your Grace, but a bad one to our Lord—­”

The Archbishop drew a swift breath of horror, and his hands jerked.  But Henry seemed not to hear; his little mouth had opened in a round hole of amazed laughter, and he was staring at the old man without hearing him.

“And you were there?” he said.  “And your wife?  And your aunts and sisters?”

“My wife is dead,” cried the old man.  “Your Grace—­”

“And on which side was she?”

“She was—­was on your Grace’s side.”

Henry threw himself back in his chair.

* * * * *

For one moment Chris did not know whether it was wrath or laughter that shook him.  His face grew crimson, and his narrow eyes disappeared into shining slits; his fat hands were on his knees, and his great body shook.  From his round open mouth came silent gusts of quick breath, and he began to sway a little from side to side.

Across the Archbishop’s face came a deferential and sympathetic smile, and he looked quickly and nervously from the King to the group and back again.  Sir James had fallen back a pace at the King’s laughter, and stood rigid and staring.  Chris took a step close to him and gripped his hand firmly.

There was a footstep behind, and the King leaned forward again, wiping the tears away with his sleeve.