“Meantime poor Bess and Cecilie, spent with grief and long waiting, were for once carried home by Heron, or ever father returned to his prison. Was’t less feeling, or more strength of body, enabled me to bide at the Tower wharf with Dancey? God knoweth. They brought him back by water; my poor sisters must have passed him. . . . The first thing I saw was the ax, _turned with its edge toward him_—my first note of his sentence. I forct my way through the crowd . . . . . some one laid a cold hand on my arm; ’twas poor Patteson, soe changed I scarce knew him, with a rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. He sayth, ‘Bide your time, Mistress Meg; when he comes past, I’ll make a passage for ye’ . . . . . ‘Oh, brother, brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath? _I’ve_ taken it!’ In another moment. ‘Now, mistress, now!’ and flinging his arms right and left, made a breach through which I darted, fearlesse of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father’s neck. He cries, ‘My Meg!’ and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde grow together. He sayth, ‘Bless thee, bless thee! Enough, enough, my child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine heart? Remember, though I die innocent, ’tis not without the will of God, who could send ’s angels to rescue me if ’twere best; therefore possess your soul in patience. Kiss them all for me, thus and thus’ . . . . . . soe gave me back into Dancey’s arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but I coulde not thus lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute’s pause did make a second rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to father agayn, and agayn they had pitie on me, and made pause while I hung upon his neck. This time there were large drops standing on his dear brow; and the big tears were swelling into his eyes. He whispered, ‘Meg, for Christ’s sake don’t unman me; thou’lt not deny my last request?’ I sayd, ‘Oh! no;’ and at once loosened mine arms. ‘God’s blessing be with you,’ he sayth with a last kiss. I could not help crying, ‘My father! my father!’ ‘The chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!’ he vehementlie whispers, pointing upward with soe passionate a regard, that I look up, almost expecting a beatific vision; and when I turn about agayn, he’s gone, and I have no more sense, nor life till I find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my sisters chafing my hands. * * * * * “Alle’s over now . . . . . they’ve done theire worst, and yet I live. There were women coulde stand aneath y^{e} cross. The Maccabees’ mother—. . . . . yes, my soul, yes; I know—naught but unpardoned sin . . . . . The chariot of Israel. * * * * *