the buzz of talk in the court was followed again by a deep silence.

The verdict of _Guilty_ was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and the
Queen's Counsel demanded sentence.

"Campion and the rest," said Chief Justice Wray, "What can you say why
you should not die?"

Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal.

"It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were not
lords of our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not be
guilty of our own deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, that
if our religion do make us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but
otherwise are and have been true subjects as ever the Queen had. In
condemning us, you condemn all your own ancestors," and as he said this,
his voice began to rise, and he glanced steadily and mournfully round at
the staring faces about him, "all the ancient priests, bishops, and
kings--all that was once the glory of England, the island of saints, and
the most devoted child of the See of Peter." Then, as he went on, he
flung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignant defiance.
"For what have we taught," he cried, "however you may qualify it with the
odious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To be
condemned with these old lights--not of England only, but of the
world--by their degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to
us." Then, with a superb gesture, he sent his voice pealing through the
hall: "God lives, posterity will live; their judgment is not so liable to
corruption as that of those who are now about to sentence us to death."

There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilled
immediately, as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when the
horrible details of his execution had been enumerated, and the formula
had ended, it was the prisoner's turn to applaud:--

"_Te Deum laudamus!_" cried Campion; "_Te Dominum confitemur._"

"_Haec est dies_," shouted Sherwin, "_quam fecit Dominus; exultemus et
laetemur in illa_": and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemned
criminals, the mock-trial ended.

When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that December
morning a few days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowd
assembled on Tower Hill and round the gateway, where the four horses were
waiting, each pair harnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He
would not go in, for he could scarcely trust