ny's notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morning
prayer after an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come in
sight of Morton's Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, who
turned and ran, on hearing the horse's footsteps, past Lambeth Church and
disappeared in the direction of the meadows behind Essex House. Anthony
checked his horse, doubtful whether to follow or not, but decided to see
what it was that the man had left pinned to the door. He rode up and
detached it, and found it was a violent and scurrilous attack upon the
Archbishop for his supposed share in the death of the two Papists. It
denounced him as a "bloody pseudo-minister," compared him to Pilate, and
bade him "look to his congregation of lewd and profane persons that he
named the Church of England," for that God would avenge the blood of his
saints speedily upon their murderers.

Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put
it indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows.

"Why so, Master Norris?" he asked.

"Why," said Anthony sharply, "you would not have me frame it, and show to
my lord."

"I am not sure," said the other, "if you desire to injure the Papists.
Such foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keep
evidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caught
the knave, and now we cannot," he added, looking at the black shrivelling
sheet half regretfully.

"It is a mystery to me," said Anthony, "how there can be Papists."

"Why, they hate England," said the steward, briefly, as the bell rang for
morning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thought
half guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that was
true of them. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as a
class; they had ceased to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queen
were irreconcilable; and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hot
flame of patriotism and loyalty that burnt so bright in the lad's soul.

But it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court-life; and he
owed it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public once
or twice, and never to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over six
years ago. He had blushed privately and bitten his lip a good many times
in the interval, when he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet
the glamour had never wholly faded; and his heart quickened