"Ah!" said old Cicely, slowly shaking her white head, "'tis easy to say 'God forgive them!' but truly I misdoubt whether God _can_ forgive them that tear the flesh and rent the hearts of His saints! What they did to that poor young thing in that torture-chamber, God knoweth. I make no doubt 'tis all writ down in His book. But Mrs. Anne she stood firm, and not one word could they get out of her; and my Lord Chancellor, who was there, he was so mad angry with her, that he throwed off his gown and pulled the rack with his own hands. At last the doctors said--for they had doctors there, the devils! to tell them how much the poor wretches could bear--the doctors said that if Mrs. Anne had any more, she would be like to die under it. So then they took her down; but afore they let her be, they kept her two hours longer a-sitting on the bare floor, and my Lord Chancellor a-talking at her all that ever he could. Then at last, when they found her too much for them, they took her away and laid her to bed. 'As weary and painful bones,' quoth she to my great-grandmother, 'had I as ever had patient Job. I thank my Lord God therefor!'[2] And if that warn't a good Christian saying, my dear, I'd like to hear one. Well, for some months after that she laid in prison; the wicked priests for ever at her, wearying her life out with talk and such. So at the end of all, when they saw it was no good, they carried her out to Smithfield, there to die. "They carried her out, really; for every bone in her was broken, and if she had lived fifty years after, she could never have set her foot to the ground again. But Mrs. Anne she went smiling, and they said which saw her, as joyful as if she were going to her bridal. There, at the stake, with the faggots round, they offered her, last thing, a pardon if she would come round to their evil ways. Ah! they knew not the strength within her! they saw not the angels waiting round, when that poor broken body should be ashes, to take up the glad soul to the Lord's rest. What was pardon to her, poor crushed thing? She had seen too much of the glory of the Lord to set any price on their pardons. So when they could do nought more with her, they burned her to ashes at the stake." Old Cicely added no comment. Was any needed? But if she had known the words spoken at one such holocaust by the mother of the martyr, she might fitly have ended her tale with them: "BLESSED BE JESUS CHRIST, AND HIS WITNESSES!" "_Bon jour, ma chère_. You look a little better this morning--not quite so English. _Et bien!_ you are ready to come?" Celia had never felt so English as at that moment. She forced back the tears, which felt as if they would work their way out in spite of her, and said, in a very low voice, "I am ready, Madam." "Let us lose no time, then," said Lady Ingram, rising, and allowing her hoop to spread itself out to its full width. "I wish you a _very_ good morning, Madam."