"Fear not for England, brother, the Lord hath a mission for her, and in his good time she shall accomplish it. Antichrist is great, but his end approacheth; and in this our pleasant land he shall receive his worst death-blow. Fear not, ’commit thy way to the Lord, and he will bring it to pass.’ And look you, brethren, the names which our enemies scorn shall shine in the Lamb’s book of life as the stars forever and ever!" The executioners had meanwhile fastened the iron girdles with a few blows of their hammers, under the arms of each of the prisoners, and were now applying the torch to each pile of wood in succession. Sir Roger Ashton heard them not, saw them not, knew not that the tiny flames growing larger each moment, were leaping up beneath him, and longing for their prey. It was still early, and in the east, just sinking behind the horizon, was the morning star. He knew that it was only setting to rise again in renewed glory, and he kept repeating, his eyes still entranced as though by a glorious vision: "As the stars forever. As the stars forever and ever!" Above that pyramid of fire, above that fierce cloud of smoke that rose as though seeking to hide from heaven the foul deed then enacting on earth, were "the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!" "As the stars forever and ever;" even so. Many have shed their blood that England might add to its domain countries, and provinces, and islands of the sea, or drive from her soil the hateful foot of the invader, and their deeds are justly commemorated in sculptured marble; but the names of those who broke the first link in the chain that bound Britain an abject slave to Rome, stand as far above the former in their glory as the stars do over the warriors’ graves. Foremost among those thousands who have come through great tribulation and washed their garments in the blood of the Lamb, stand those glorious English martyrs, the pioneers of the Reformation--"As the stars forever and ever!" *CHAPTER VIII.* _*Quiet Days.*_ On the afternoon succeeding this fearful tragedy, a venerable old man of more than three-score years entered the room where Hubert still lay with a low fever brought on by exposure and fatigue. He was Roger Markham, of Romney in Kent, to whose care the boys had been consigned. He had long since been deprived of his curacy, but, beloved by all his former parishioners for his saintly life, he had continued to dwell among them, supported by the labor of his hands, and ministering to them in secret that spiritual food which they sought for in vain from the parish priest. He gladly accepted his charge, and declaring that Hubert would be better when breathing the fresh air, appointed the next day for them to set out on their journey to his own home.