It was the old reproachful cry, "Lord, carest thou not that we perish?" but Maude could not understand it at all. That cry, when it rises within the fold, is sometimes a triumph, and always a mystery, to those that are without. "You believe yourselves even now as safe as the angels, and shortly to be as happy, and you complain thus!" True; but we are not angels yet. Poor weak, suffering humanity is always rebellious, without an accompanying unction from the Holy One. But it is not good for us to forget that such moods are rebellion, and that they often cause the enemies of the Lord to blaspheme. Bertram quietly drew Maude aside into the next window. "Let the poor fellow be!" he said compassionately. "Alack, 'tis no marvel. These traitor loons have hanged his father. And never, methinks, did son love father more." "Master Calverley's father!--the Queen's squire?" "He. And look you, Maude,--heard man ever the like! the Queen's own Grace was on her knees three hours unto my Lord of Arundel, praying him to spare Master Calverley's life. Think of it, Maude!--Caesar's daughter!" "Mercy, Jesu!"--Maude could imagine nothing more frightful. It seemed to her equivalent to the whole world tumbling into chaos. What was to become of "slender folk," such as Bertram and herself, when men breathed who could hear unmoved the pleadings of "Caesar's daughter?" "But what said he?" "Who--my Lord of Arundel? The unpiteous, traitorous, hang-dog lither oaf!" Bertram would apparently have chosen more opprobrious words if they would kindly have occurred to him. "Why, he said--`Pray for yourself and your lord, Lady, and let this be; it were the better for you.' The great Devil, to whom he 'longeth, be _his_ aid in the like case!" "Truly, he may be in the like case one day," said Maude. "And that were at undern [Eleven o'clock a.m.] this morrow, an' I were King!" cried Bertram wrathfully. "But what had Master Calverley done?" Bertram dared only whisper the name of the horrible crime of which alone poor Calverley stood accused. "He was a Lollard--a Gospeller." "Be they such ill fawtors?" asked Maude in a shocked tone. "Judge for yourself what manner of men they be," said Bertram indignantly, "when the King's Highness and the Queen, and our own Lady's Grace, and the Lady Princess that was, and the Duke of Lancaster, be of them. Ay, and many another could I name beyond these." "I will never crede any ill of our Lady's Grace!" said Maude warmly. "Good morrow, Bertram, my son," said a voice behind them--a voice strange to Maude, but familiar to Bertram. "Father Wilfred! Christ save you, right heartily! You be here in the nick of time. You are come--"