Amid all these scenes of turmoil and confusion, of terror and distress, the family of the Jefferays at Chiddingly were left unmolested and undisturbed. In many a quiet country village the Services of the Church, as they had been appointed at the Reformation, were duly performed; the Prayer Book was not superseded by the Missal, and the parish priest was not dispossessed. Their obscurity sheltered them—as yet. The Vicar of Chiddingly was William Tittleton, who had been appointed to the benefice in the reign of Henry the Eighth. He had been at Magdalen College, Oxford, with Sir John Jefferay, where the two young men had formed a strong and enduring friendship. Thus it happened that in due time Sir John presented his friend—now in Holy Orders—to the benefice of Chiddingly, and the Vicar had returned the good service by acting as tutor to the young people of Chiddingly Place. He was a very able scholar, and between him and his pupils a strong affection subsisted. But a change was at hand for the parish of Chiddingly—its peace and quietude came suddenly to an end. The "Marian Persecution" had begun, and the lurid flames of Smithfield had aroused horror and indignation in many English hearts—especially in Sussex, where the Reformation had taken deep root. At this critical moment the Vicar of Chiddingly preached a sermon at Mayfield which brought him under the censure of the Government, and an apparitor was sent to make inquiry into the ecclesiastical position of the little parish. The ill-omened visitor attended the simple services of the parish church, and took copious notes of the Vicar's sermon, to the dismay of the rustics of Chiddingly. The fires of Lewes in the month of June this year had excited their fierce animosity, and the appearance of the apparitor in their midst gave birth to a sudden outburst of wrath. It was at the close of a lovely day in July—a Sunday—when their anger found vent. They had marked the presence of a stranger at the morning service—a stern-looking, middle-aged man, garbed in black, and as they came out of church the men gathered in groups to discuss the object and purpose of his visit. The man was sojourning at the village inn (the "Six Bells"), and thither he was allowed for the present to retire unmolested, although a strict watch was at once instituted upon his doings. In the afternoon the visitor again attended service, and an ominous murmur among the rustics became distinctly audible as they observed that he was again busily taking notes of all that he saw and heard. The service over, the man left the church with the intention of proceeding to the inn, where his horse was stabled; but he was not to be allowed to leave the village thus quietly. Hard by the church was the horse-pond—at this period of the year about half full of dark slimy water; in the centre of the pond the depth would be about four or five feet.