Lord Dudley drew the young girl back to his side, pulled the mantle almost roughly over her face, and turned sternly upon the men. “Behold,” he said, with a flashing eye, “behold the effect of your cruel delay; my poor sister is driven stark mad at last.” The speech, and the pale steadfast features of the young man, had the desired effect. The guard did not open the door, it is true, but their manner was more subdued, and they consulted in a low voice together. “And if we unlock the church, what warrant have we that you are not a partisan of the Duke’s?” said the leader, glancing suspiciously at the young nobleman’s rich vestments; “you may be of his household, nay, his son, for aught we know.” “You have the word of a Warwick, and this proof that the pledge is not given without right,” said the young man, flinging aside his velvet cloak, and displaying the family crest, set in brilliants, on his sword-hilt. “Now, sirs, let me pass! I have no share in this broil, and would gladly have escaped from it unknown.” “Pass in, and heaven’s blessing go with you!” said the man, almost angrily striking up the line of weapons which his band still kept levelled. He unlocked the heavy door, and while the dense mob shouted around him, eager to know why he acted thus for a stranger, he stood, with uncovered head, till the young nobleman had entered the church; then, he closed the door again with a half repeated blessing upon the lips that had been almost blistered with imprecations a few moments before. The solemn stillness and cool atmosphere, which pervaded that little church, fell like a breath from heaven on the three persons who entered it, weary and faint from the turmoil that raged without. The blended hues of purple and gold and crimson, shed from the stained and diamond-shaped glass that filled the gothic windows, flooded the building with a dim mellow light, and slept, in a rich haze, among the funereal urns of snowy marble placed in the various niches, once occupied by images of Catholic worship. A shadowy light, such as beams from a mild sunset, lay upon the altar-stone, which gleamed out white and pure above the purple velvet that carpeted its steps. A baptismal fount of marble stood on the right hand filled with clear water; but in that rich light it seemed almost brimming with wine. Two censers of massive silver stood above the altar, but only as remnants of a discarded faith, for no incense had been kindled in their hearts since the divorce of the late Henry and Catherine of Arragon.