before that appointed for his execution; John Hume, the chaplain, was pardoned and went about his business; the unfortunate “negromancer” alone, Roger Bolingbroke, paid the penalty of his crime. First he stood in pillory at Paul’s Cross, with all his instruments, the wizard’s tools and weapons hanging around him in the presence of the shuddering crowd; next he was drawn to Tyburn and there hanged, with the usual accompaniments. He protested his innocence to the last. As for the Duchess she first took sanctuary at Westminster; then, for some reason unknown, she left sanctuary and fled to the “Castle” of Lesnes. Is this Lesnes Abbey near Woolwich? There she was arrested and examined by the Lords in Council. It is said that she confessed. The complete silence and inactivity of her husband, who does not appear to have moved a step in the matter, seems to show that he was convinced of her guilt, and that he was anxious not to appear involved in an odious crime which, if Henry were to die, would imperil his succession, or at least, blacken his name, and strengthen his enemies. Eleanor was ordered by the Council to do public penance. And here follows one of the most picturesque incidents in the whole history of Mediæval London. Accompanied by her women, the Duchess was taken on Monday, 13th November, from Westminster (from which we gather that she was lodged in the Palace), in a barge to the Temple Stairs. There her maids took off her shoes and stockings and her rich gown, wrapped her in a white sheet, took off her hood, tied a white handkerchief over her head, and placed in her hand a wax taper weighing two pounds. In this dismal guise, while trumpets went before, and men-at-arms marched before her and behind her,—one hopes she was allowed the attendance of her maids,—this great lady, the wife of the Regent or Protector, the greatest lady in the land, stepped barefooted along the rough road, while all the streets were crowded and every window was filled with curious eyes, and the people each asked the other if this pale and shrinking woman could be the wife of Duke Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester, brother to King Henry V., Protector of the Realm? Pity she received none: who could pity one who had practised arts of devilish magic? And were not the ashes of her confederate, the witch of Eye, still smoking on the soil of Smithfield? At St. Paul’s she offered her taper at the high altar. Two days afterwards, she was again taken by barge from Westminster to the Swan Stairs, where she landed, and in the same guise as before, walked “through Bridge Streete, Groschirche Street, to the Ledenhalle and so to Crichurche.” And on Friday in the same way she landed at Queenhithe and so into Chepe and to St. Michael’s, Cornhill. It is a curious illustration of the time and of the respect due to rank that though this public and infamous penance was inflicted upon the lady, the Mayor, the Sheriffs, and the Crafts of London met her every day at her landing.