No wonder that he should be elevated by the imposition. The terms were such as the greatest villain who had any faith in Rome might conscientiously accept, and proceed, as Abdil did, to put in practice the most diabolical act under the pretence of doing God's service. He returned to Freston seven times more infatuated and diabolical than he had ever before been. The poor fellow was of a naturally kind-hearted, easy temper, but was weak, ignorant, and easily imposed upon; just such as the priests of that day sought for to do the work they dared not themselves perform. Everything was arranged, but too successfully, for the destruction of Lord De Freston's castle, and the late residence of Ellen, his daughter, in the centre of Ipswich, so long belonging to the Wingfields. Abdil had been made instrumental in the latter as well as the former, under the pretence of being employed about some repairs; so that he was in the plot, and sworn to secrecy. We shall see, however, that if vengeance inflicted by man is suffered to prevail for a moment, it recoils upon the head of the perpetrator, even when he is seeking the ruin of the innocent. How awful were the intrigues of those days! Truth requires no intrigue, certainly no violence, to defend it. It is so calm and exalted above passion, that it scorns alike to put in force absolute cruelty, as it does absolute condemnation or acquittal. CHAPTER XLIX. THE FOOL. Christmas Day of that memorable year in which Cardinal Wolsey died, came with its usual festivities; which in every house were exercised in a greater or less degree, according to their means. In De Freston's domain, it had ever been a day of the gathering of his tenantry into the great hall, when the bringing in the great log, the boar's head, and the largest buck which could be shot, as hereditary customs, were observed. Upon the present occasion, it was, if possible, a more than common festivity, particularly on account of the great age of the proprietor, whose birthday was on Christmas Day, and he had now attained the great age of eighty-eight years. The old Baron was as fine a specimen of an Englishman as ever walked into his hall. He retained the fire of his eye on that very day with the vigor of a man whose intellect was less impaired than his body. It was a memorable Christmas Day for every one connected with the house of Freston--memorable, as will be seen, for its festive character; memorable for its local events, and for the destruction of the two most stately mansions which at that period graced the banks of the Orwell. But though it was a day of rejoicing to many, it was, as it ever will be, a day of woe to some. All were happy in and around the hospitable mansion. Cavendish saw such a body of happy Suffolk yeomen meeting at the foot of Freston Tower, that he declared, if ever his fortunes enabled him to do so, he would become a Suffolk man.