Will burst into a fresh paroxysm without answering. "Metrusteth thou hast not been an ill lad?" Will shook his curly head. "Nay, what then? Is Mother sick?" Another shake. "Come, tell me what it is. Mayhap we shall find some remedy." "O Mistress Agnes!" came with a multitude of sobs. "Nay, then, tell me now!" pleaded Agnes. "O Mistress Agnes, they have ta'en him!" "Ta'en whom, my lad? Sure, thy little brother Dickon is not stole away?" "No!" sobbed Will. "But, O Mistress!--they've ta'en him to yon ugly prison, afore those wicked folk, and they call him an here--heretic, and they say he'll ne'er come out again--nay, never!" This was manifestly something serious. "But ta'en whom, Will, dear?--not thy father?" "Oh nay, nay!--the Black Friar." "What Black Friar, Will?" Agnes hardly knew her own voice. "Why, our Black Friar--Father Laurence. There was only one." For a minute there was dead silence in reply--a minute, during which the rose-colour died out of sky and earth, and the glad music was changed to funeral bells. Then Agnes rose from her stooping position. "There was only one!" she repeated, with a far-away look in her eyes, which were fixed on the tower of the Cathedral, but saw nothing. "He was so good to me and Dickon!" sobbed Will. "Child, wilt do thy best to find out whither they have ta'en him, and when he is to be had afore the Bishops, and then come and tell me?" Will, occupied in rubbing his eyes with his small sleeve, nodded assent. Agnes filled her pails mechanically, and carried them home. The world must go on, if the sun would never rise any more for her. Early the next morning Will brought her news that the six prisoners, of whom John Laurence was one, had been taken to the Counter, and that on the eighth of February they were to appear before Bishop Gardiner at Winchester Palace, Southwark. Knowing that Mistress Winter would soon hear of the arrest, if she had not already done so, Agnes made no attempt to conceal the news. She told it herself, and requested permission to go and hear the examination. "What, on a brewing-day!" cried Mistress Winter. "Good sooth, nay! They be right sure to be put by to another day. If that be not brewing, nor baking, nor cleaning, nor washing-day, may be thou canst be let go for an half-hour then." "Prithee, Mistress Sacramentary, don thy velvet gown!" spitefully added Dorothy.