Scantily furnished was that chamber; three wooden chairs with high backs grotesquely carved, a massive table in the centre, a huge hearth decorated with the Abbey arms, upon which smouldered two or three logs, for fuel was cheap, and the night was cold and damp. Against the wall hung a crucifix, and there, with their faces towards the memorial of the martyrdom which redeemed a world, knelt the three. We cannot follow their mental struggles, which found relief in prayer--in intense prayer, in burning words of supplication, which wafted their spirits on high, and gave them strength to say “not my will but Thine be done.” A step on the stairs, but they rose not from their knees; they felt that one had entered and was kneeling behind them, and at length they heard sobs escape from their visitor, which he could not repress. They rose slowly from their devotions, and the Abbot grasped Cuthbert’s hands and raised him from the floor. “My child,” he said, “dost thou grieve for me?” A sob was the only answer. “Listen, my child, which is best, heaven or earth, Paradise or Glastonbury?” Still no answer. “And they but rob us of a few brief years, which to aged men like us must be years of suffering; they separate us from the ranks of the Church Militant, but not from those of the Church Triumphant, that is beyond their power; they may kill the body, but after that they have no more that they can do.” “But the shame, the disgrace!” “Is it greater than the Son of God bore on Calvary? Nay, my son, let us not grieve that it has pleased Him, of Whom are all things, to ordain this painful road, which He Himself has trodden before us; nay, sob not, nor sorrow as those without hope, but live so that thou mayest rejoin us in the regions of Paradise.” Cuthbert gazed upon the calm majestic face of the old man, and it seemed to him irradiated by a light from above. He repressed his grief, and listened to the last words of his friend. “It is written that in the last days perilous times shall come, and we have fallen upon them; happy then that God removes us to His secret chambers, where He shall hide us until the iniquity of a world be overpast, and His redeemed come with triumph to Zion. Before us now is the _via Dolorosa_ of a brief hour, but from the gibbet we shall scale the skies. For _thee_, my son, is the life-time of trial and temptation, wherefore I pray for thee, and _will_ pray for thee when thou shall see my face no more. Remember, dear child, he that endureth to the end, the same shall be saved, and let neither men nor devils rob thee of thy crown.” “By God’s help I will endure.” “I believe that thou wilt strive, yea, and prevail. But _one_ more thought to earthly things, and I resign the world for ever. Thou rememberest the secret chamber?” “I do, Father.” “And the ring which is now on the finger of him who shall claim thy promise?” “Well, my Father.”