hat the
Council sat on affairs of importance.

"And it is there--" began Anthony harshly.

The priest turned to him, suddenly grave, as if in reproof.

"Yes," he said softly. "It is there that the passion of the martyrs
begins."

Marjorie turned sharply.

"You mean--"

"Well," he said, "it is there that the Council sits to examine prisoners
both before and after the Question. They are taken downstairs to the
Question, and brought back again after it. It was there that--"

He broke off.

"Who is this?" he said.

The court had been empty while they talked except that on the far side,
beneath the towering cliff of the keep, a sentry went to and fro. But
now another man had come into view, walking up from the way they
themselves had come; and it would appear from the direction he took that
he would pass within twenty or thirty yards of them. He was a tall man,
dressed in sad-coloured clothes, with a felt hat on his head and the
usual sword by his side. He was plainly something of a personage, for he
walked easily and confidently. He was still some distance off; but it
was possible to make out that he was sallowish in complexion, wore a
trimmed beard, and had something of a long throat.

Father Campion stared at him a moment, and, as he stared, Marjorie heard
Mr. Babington utter a sudden exclamation. Then the priest, with one
quick glance at him, murmured something which Marjorie could not hear,
and walked briskly off to meet the stranger.

"Come," said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, "we must see the church."

"Who is it?" whispered Mistress Alice, with even her serene face a
little troubled.

For the first moment, as they walked towards the entrance of the church,
Anthony said nothing. Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quite
low and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name that
Marjorie could not catch.

She turned before they went in, and looked again.

The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as if
asking for direction.

"Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I did
not--"

"Topcliffe," said Anthony.

III

The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour later, up the
ebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat rowed by a waterman and one
of their own servants. About them was a scene, of which the very
thought, a month ago, would have absorbed and fascinated her. They had
scarcely passed through London Bridge finding them