Henry grew tired of his wife, Queen Catherine, but the Pope would not allow him to divorce her so that he might marry another.  Then Henry quarreled with the Pope.  The Pope, he said, should no longer have power in England.  He should no longer be head of the Church, but the people must henceforth look to the King as such.  This More could not do.  He tried to keep out of the quarrel.  He was true to his King as king, but he felt that he must be true to his religion too.  To him the Pope was the representative of Christ on earth, and he could look to no other as head of the Church.  When first More had come into the King’s service, Henry bade him “first look unto God, and after God unto him.”  Of this his Chancellor now reminded him, and laying down his seal of office he went home, hoping to live the rest of his days in peace.

But that was not to be.  “It is perilous striving with princes,” said a friend. " I would wish you somewhat to incline to the King’s pleasure.  The anger of princes is death.”

“Is that all?” replied More calmly; “then in good faith the difference between you and me is but this, that I shall die to-day and you to-morrow.”

So it fell out.  There came a day when messengers came to More’s happy home, and the beloved father was led away to imprisonment and death.

For fifteen months he was kept in the Tower.  During all that time his cheerful steadfastness did not waver.  He wrote long letters to his children, and chiefly to Meg, his best-loved daughter.  When pen and ink were taken away from him, he still wrote with coal.  In these months he became an old man, bent and crippled with disease.  But though his body was feeble his mind was clear, his spirit bright as ever.  No threats or promises could shake his purpose.  He could not and would not own Henry as head of the Church.

At last the end came.  In Westminster Hall More was tried for treason and found guilty.  From Westminster through the thronging streets he was led back again to the Tower.  In front of the prisoner an ax was carried, the edge being turned towards him.  That was the sign to all who saw that he was to die.

As the sad procession reached the Tower Wharf there was a pause.  A young and beautiful woman darted from the crowd, and caring not for the soldiers who surrounded him, unafraid of their swords and halberds, she reached the old man’s side, and threw herself sobbing on his breast.  In was Margaret, More’s beloved daughter, who, fearing that never again she might see her father, thus came in the open street to say farewell.  She clung to him and kissed him in sight of all again and again, but no word could she say save, “Oh, my father! oh, my father!”

Then Sir Thomas, holding her tenderly, comforted and blessed her, and at last she took her arms from about his neck and he passed on.  But Margaret could not yet leave him.  Scarcely had she gone ten steps than suddenly she turned back.  Once more breaking through the guard she threw her arms about him.  Not a word did Sir Thomas say, but as he held her there the tears fell fast from his eyes, while from the crowd around broke the sound of weeping.  Even the guards wept for pity.  But at last, with full and heavy hearts, father and daughter parted.