'For I have made this lad my friend. It shall cost me some money, but I do not doubt that your Grace shall repay.' The Archbishop raised his head. 'No, before God in heaven on His throne!' he said. His voice was shrill and high; he agitated his hands in their fine, tied sleeves. 'I will have no part in these Cromwell tricks. All is lost; let it be lost. I must say my prayers.' 'Has it been by saying of your Grace's prayers that your Grace has lived through these months?' Lascelles asked softly. 'Aye,' the Archbishop wrung his hands; 'you girded me and moved me when Cromwell lay at death, to write a letter to the King's Highness. To write such a letter as should appear brave and faithful and true to Privy Seal's cause.' 'Such a letter your Grace wrote,' Lascelles said; 'and it was the best writing that ever your Grace made.' The Archbishop gazed at the table. 'How do I know that?' he said in a whisper. 'You say so, who bade me write it.' 'For that your Grace lives yet,' Lascelles said softly; 'though in those days a warrant was written for your capture. For, sure it is, and your Grace has heard it from the King's lips, that your letter sounded so faithful and piteous and true to him your late leader, that the King could not but believe that you, so loyal in such a time to a man disgraced and cast down beyond hope, could not but be faithful and loyal in the future to him, the King, with so many bounties to bestow.' 'Aye,' the Archbishop said, 'but how do I know what of a truth was in the King's mind who casteth down to-day one, to-morrow another, till none are left?' And again Cranmer dropped his anguished eyes to the table. * * * * * In those days still--and he slept still worse since the King had bidden him write this letter to Rome--the Archbishop could not sleep on any night without startings and sweats and cryings out in his sleep. And he gave orders that, when he so cried out, the page at his bedside should wake him.