side shall be
printed.'

Cranmer's head was sunk over his book.

'This lad,' Lascelles said softly, 'who in seven days' time again shall
keep the Queen's door (for it is not true that the Queen's Highness is
an ingrate, well sure am I), this lad shall be a very useful confidant;
a very serviceable guide to help us to a knowledge of who goes in to the
Queen and who cometh out.'

The Archbishop did not appear to be listening to his gentleman's soft
voice and, resuming his pen, Lascelles finished his tale with--

'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 ord