He was resting after the fatigues of the day, and in truth, thinking very uneasily over the events of the trial. “What if, after all, he is in the right--that appeal to the judgment bar above was very solemn--when that great assize takes place, in whose shoes would it be best to stand, in the place of the judge or the felon of to-day?” A domestic entered--“A lad craves a moment’s speech.” “Who is he?” “I know him not, but he has been weeping bitterly, as one may see by his face.” The sheriff hesitated, but he was in a merciful mood; he suspected the object of the visitor, and it was a good sign for the success of the suppliant that he permitted the visit. “Well, my lad,” said he, as Cuthbert entered, “what is the matter now?” “I have a boon to crave, your worship; you will not refuse it me?” “Let me first hear what it is.” “The Abbot has been my adopted father, my best friend from childhood; let me see him once more, let me receive his parting blessing, ere wicked hands slay him.” “Wicked hands, my lad, you forget yourself, and where you are.” “Pardon me, I meant no offence; I know it is no fault of your worship.” “It is but a slight boon, after all,” said the sheriff, “and one which _may_ be conceded;” and as he spoke he wrote a few lines on a slip of parchment. “They will give you admission for half-an-hour, if you show them this at the gateway.” “May I not stay longer?” “It would not be kind to those who are to die; they need their time to make their peace with God.” “That is already made, your worship.” “I trust so,” said the sheriff, with a sad faint smile at the boy’s earnestness. “Who art thou, my lad?” he said. “The Abbot’s adopted son.” “But who were your real parents?” “I know not.” “What name do they call you?” “Cuthbert, I have none other.” “Poor lad,” said the sheriff, as the boy departed, “it seems almost like a familiar face, yet I have never met him before; some accidental likeness, I suppose.” FOOTNOTES [17] Lingard v. 19. [18] This terrible sentence is copied from the form in actual use until the present century. CHAPTER VII. _GLASTONBURY TOR._ A dead silence reigned around the precincts of the once mighty Abbey, many of the monks had fled, fearing lest they should share the fate which had befallen their superiors, and having no decided predilection for martyrdom; but many still shuddered in their cells, or wandered aimlessly about the doomed cloisters, so soon to be a refuge for bats and owls. Only a few lights burned here and there in the darkness of that November night, but one shone steadily from the window of the strong room over the gatehouse, where the three fated monks awaited their doom.