CHAPTER II. THE HALT AT NEWGATE. It was a day of triumph to Bonner, and his heart swelled with pride and gratified vengeance as he marched along. The precincts of the cathedral were crowded with spectators, as indeed were all the streets traversed by the _cortége_ on its way to Smithfield. The majority of the beholders being Romanists, they prostrated themselves devoutly as the host went by, while the priests accompanying the bishop sprinkled them with holy water. However, there were many who refused to kneel, and who were only restrained by fear from giving utterance to their abhorrence of the ceremony. As the train was passing through Ludgate, a man called out in a stentorian voice, “So, my masters, at last we have got the Inquisition in England!” But scarcely had the words escaped him, when he was seized and dragged off. Arrived at Newgate, where Prebend Rogers had been kept since his condemnation, the _cortége_ came to a halt, and, after a short delay, the prisoner was brought forth. He was a man of middle age, tall of stature, thin, but well-built, dark-complexioned, and possessing a grave, intelligent countenance. He looked perfectly composed, and remarked, as he noticed the extent of the _cortége_, “Ye make as great a show as if ye were about to conduct me to a festival, and not to the stake.” While the sheriffs, who had charge of the doomed man, and who wore their robes and chains, were mounting their horses, a painful incident occurred. With loud cries, that ought to have moved every breast, a woman, having a young child in her arms, and with several other terrified children clinging to her, burst through the ranks of the halberdiers, exclaiming, “For Christ our Saviour’s sake, let me bid a last farewell to my husband!” “Get hence, importunate and troublesome woman!” cried one of the sheriffs, named Woodrooffe, in loud and harsh tones. “This man is not thy husband.” “I protest to you he is, Sir,” she rejoined, in extremity of anguish, “my lawful husband, and these are our children.” “Spawn of the devil!” shouted Woodrooffe. “Away with all thy brood of Satan, or the men shall drive you hence with their halberds. You ought to know that a priest cannot marry.” “We have been married these fourteen years, Sir,” said Rogers. “I pray you suffer her to come to me. ’Twill be a comfort to her and to the children to say farewell, and receive my blessing. Our parting will be short. If you are a husband and a father yourself, you will not be deaf to my appeal.” “I am both, yet will I not suffer her or her base-born brats to come near thee,” roared Woodrooffe. “Push them away with your pikes if they will not retire peaceably,” he added to the guard. “Heaven forgive you!” exclaimed Rogers, as his wife and children were thrust aside. “’Twas the sole consolation I asked, and that is denied me.”