Banks made his way to the dining-room, where Mr Benden was seated with a dish of cherries before him. "'Day!" was all the greeting he vouchsafed. "Good-day, Master. I am but now returned from Canterbury, where I have been in the Bishop's Court." "Humph!" was the only expression of Mr Benden's interest. He had grown harder, colder, and stonier, since those days when he missed Alice's presence. He did not miss her now. "The prisoners from this place were sentenced to-day." "Humph!" "They shall die there, the nineteenth of June next." Banks did not feel it at all necessary to soften his words, as he seemed to be addressing a stone wall. "Humph!" The third growl sounded gruffer than the rest. "And Mistress Benden said to Nichol Pardue--`Then shall we keep our Trinity octave in Heaven!'" Mr Benden rose from his chair. Was he moved at last? What was he about to say? Thrusting forth a finger towards the door, he compressed his thanks and lamentations into a word-- "Go!" John Banks turned away. Why should he stay longer? "Poor soul!" was what he said, when he found himself again in the kitchen with Mary. "What, _him_?" answered Mary rather scornfully. "No--her, that she had to dwell with him. She'll have fairer company after Saturday." "Is it Saturday, Jack?" "Ay, Mall. Would you be there? I shall." "No," said Mary, in a low tone. "I couldn't keep back my tears, and maybe they'd hurt her. She'll lack all her brave heart, and I'll not trouble her in that hour." "You'd best not let Master Hall know--neither Mr Roger, nor Mr Thomas. It'd nigh kill poor little Mistress Christie to know of it aforehand. She loved her Aunt Alice so dearly." "I can hold my tongue, Jack. Easier, maybe, than I can keep my hands off that wretch in yonder!" When Mary went in to lay the cloth for the last meal, she found the wretch in question still seated at the table, his head buried in his hands. A gruffer voice than ever bade her "Let be! Keep away!" Mary withdrew quietly, and found it a shade easier to keep her hands off Mr Benden after that incident. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. ONE SUMMER DAY. The nineteenth of June was the loveliest of summer days, even in the Martyrs' Field at Canterbury, in the hollow at the end of which the seven stakes were set up. The field is nearly covered now by the station of the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway, but the hollow can still be traced whence the souls of His faithful witnesses went up to God. John Banks was early on the ground, and so secured a front place. The crowd grew apace, until half the field was covered. Not only residents of the city, but casual sight-seers, made up the bulk of it, the rather since it was somewhat dangerous to be absent, especially for a suspected person. From the neighbouring villages, too, many came in--the village squire and his dame in rustling silks, the parish priest in his cassock, the labourers and their wives in holiday garb.