Chris remembered as in a dream that the bishop had been the King’s tutor years before.

“He is a good theologian too,” went on the bishop, “and that is his misfortune now, though I never thought to say such a thing.  Perhaps he will become a better one still, if God has mercy on him, and he will come back to his first faith.  But we must be good Catholics ourselves, and be ready to die for our Religion, before we can teach him.”

Again, after another silence, he went on.

“You are to be a priest, I hear, my son, and to take Christ’s yoke more closely upon you.  It is no easy one in these days, though love will make it so, as Himself said.  I suppose it will be soon now?”

“We are to get a dispensation, my lord, for the interstices,” said the Prior.

Chris had heard that this would be done, before he left Lewes, and he was astonished now, not at the news, but at the strange softness of the Prior’s voice.

“That is very well,” went on the bishop.  “We want all the faithful priests possible.  There is a great darkness in the land, and we need lights to lighten it.  You have a brother in Master Cromwell’s service, sir, I hear?”

Chris was silent.

“You must not grieve too much.  God Almighty can set all right.  It may be he thinks he is serving Him.  We are not here to judge, but to give our own account.”

The bishop went on presently to ask a few questions and to talk of Master More, saying that he had managed to correspond with him for a while, but that now all the means for doing so had been taken away from them both, as well as his own books.

“It is a great grief to me that I cannot say my office, nor say nor hear mass:  I must trust now to the Holy Sacrifice offered by others.”

He spoke so tenderly and tranquilly that Chris was hardly able to keep back his tears.  It seemed that the soul still kept its serene poise in that wasted body, and was independent of it.  There was no weakness nor peevishness anywhere.  The very room with its rough walls, its cobwebbed roof, its uneven flooring, its dreadful chill and gloom, seemed alive with a warm, redolent, spiritual atmosphere generated by this keen, pure soul.  Chris had never been near so real a sanctity before.

“You have seen nothing of my Rochester folk, I suppose?” went on the bishop to the Prior.

The Prior shook his head.

“I am very downcast about them sometimes; I saw many of them at the court the other day.  I forget that the Good Shepherd can guard His own sheep.  And they were so faithful to me that I know they will be faithful to Him.”

* * * * *

There came a sound of a key being knocked upon the door outside, and the bishop stood up, slowly and painfully.

“That will be Mr. Giles,” he said, “hungry for supper.”

The two monks sank down on their knees, and as Chris closed his eyes he heard a soft murmur of blessing over his head.