ount, and the others added
an Amen.

"Well, you're a queer set!" said Bartle, looking at them. "I shouldn't
want to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: and
that's easier of the two."

"We are only going Home," answered William Mount. "The climb may be
steep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof."

"Well, you seem mighty sure on't. I know nought. Priests say you'll
find yourselves in a worser place nor you think."

"Nay! God is faithful," said Johnson.

"Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a deal
tidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn't all
told. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham."

"God go with them!" replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hear
this than he had done for his own doom.

"And Margaret Thurston's recanted. She's reconciled and had to better
lodging."

It was evident, though to Bartle's astonishment, that the prisoners
considered this the worst news of all.

"And John Thurston?"

"Ah, they aren't so sure of him. They think he'll bear a faggot, but
it's not certain yet."

"God help and strengthen him!"

"And Mistress Wade, of the King's Head, is had up to London to the
Bishop."

"God grant her His grace!"

"I've told you all now. Good-night."

The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned to
carry the writ down to the Moot Hall.

Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in
his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the
sight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it.

"Hearken!" said Wastborowe. "At six o'clock in the morning, on the
waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these
men and women underwritten:--William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, Robert
_alias_ William Purcas, Agnes Silverside _alias_ Downes _alias_ Smith
_alias_ May, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer."

With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and
thanked God.

"`Agnes Bowyer'," repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. "Your name's
not Bowyer; it's Bongeor."

"Bongeor," said its bearer. "Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr
Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out."

"I should think you'd be uncommon glad if you were!" said he.

"Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore," she replied
earnestly. "Let there not be no mistak