He has regained his crown;
but it is the crown of martyrdom, the aureole of slaughtered saints.
England, our little England that was once so great under the strong rule
of that virgin-queen who made herself the arbiter of Christendom, and the
wonder of the world----"
The pious lady shivered and crossed herself at this praise of the heretic
queen--praise that could only come from a heretic.
"Our blessed and peaceful England has become a den of thieves, given over
to the ravening wolves of rebellion and dissent, the penniless soldiery who
would bring down all men's fortunes to their own level, seize all, eat and
drink all, and trample crown and peerage in the mire. They have slain
him, reverend mother, this impious herd--they gave him the mockery of a
trial--just as his Master, Christ, was mocked. They spurned and spat upon
him, even as our Redeemer was spurned; and then, on the Sabbath day, they
cried aloud in their conventicles, 'Lord, hast Thou not smelt a sweet
savour of blood?' Ay, these murderers gloried in their crime, bragged
of their gory hands, lifted them up towards heaven as a token of
righteousness!"
The cavalier was pacing to and fro in the dimness of the convent parlour,
with quick, agitated steps, his nostrils quivering, grizzled brows
bent over angry eyes, his hand trembling with rage as it clutched his
sword-hilt.
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