that God’s blood and body is in bread because man has consecrated that bread, then you say that man can make God.”
“Do you insist in these heresies?” demanded the Lord Mayor.
“I insist on speaking the truth,” she answered.
“You are condemned of your own mouth,” she was told.
“I will say nothing but that which I believe to be true.”
“Methinks,” said Gardiner, “that we should send a priest that you may confess your faults.”
“I will confess my faults unto God,” she answered proudly. “I am sure He will hear me with favor.”
“You leave us no alternative but to condemn you to the flames.”
“I have never heard that Christ or His Apostles condemned any to the flames.”
Her judges whispered together; they were uncomfortable. It was ever thus with martyrs. They discomfited others while they remained calm themselves. If only she would show some sign of fear. If only it were possible to confound her in argument.
“You are like a parrot!” cried Gardiner angrily. “You repeat… repeat…repeat that which you have learned.”
Wriothesley’s eyes were narrowed. He was thinking: I should like to see fear in those eyes; I should like to hear those proud lips cry for mercy.
She spoke in her rich clear voice. “God is a spirit,” she said. “He will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.”
“Do you plainly deny Christ to be in the sacrament?”
“I do. Jesus said: ‘Take heed that no man shall deceive you. For many shall come in My name saying I am Christ; and shall deceive many.’ The bread of the sacrament is but bread, and when you say it is the body of Christ, you deceive yourselves. Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold and worshipped it. That is what you do. Bread is but bread…”
“Silence!” roared Gardiner. “You have been brought here, woman, to be tried for your life, not to preach heresy.”
The judges conferred together and, finding her guilty, condemned her to death by burning.
They took her back to her dungeon in the Tower.
TO DIE THE martyr’s death!
Had she the courage to do that? She could picture the flames rising from her feet; she could smell the burning faggots, she could hear their crackle. But how could she estimate the agonizing pain? She saw herself, the flames around her, the cross in her hand. Could she bear it with dignity and fortitude?
“Oh God,” she prayed, “give me courage. Help me to bear my hour of pain, remembering how Thy Son, Jesus Christ, did suffer. Help me, God, for Jesus’ sake.”
She was on her knees throughout the night. Scenes from the past seemed to flit before her eyes. She was in her father’s garden, with her sister, feeding the peacocks; she was being married to Mr. Kyme; she was enduring his embraces; she was in the barge which was carrying her to prison; she was facing her judges in the Guildhall.
At last, swooning from exhaustion, she lay on the floor of her cell.
But with the coming of morning she revived. She thought: Previously it was so easy to contemplate death, but that was when I did not know I was to die.
WITHIN THE PALACE they were talking of Anne Askew.
She had deliberately defied her judges. What a fool! What a sublime fool!
“This is but a beginning,” it was whispered.
Those who had read the forbidden books and had dabbled with the new learning, were, in their fear, looking for plausible excuses.
“It was just an intellectual exercise, nothing more.”
“It was not a heresy… not a faith to die for.”
The Queen took to her bed; she was physically sick with horror. Anne—delicate Anne—condemned to the flames! This thing must not be allowed to happen. But how could she prevent it? What power had she?
The King had been irritable with her; he had ignored her when the courtiers were assembled. Once he had made up his mind regarding the Duchesses of Suffolk and Richmond he would find some means of disposing of his present Queen.
Her sister came and knelt by her bed. They did not speak, and Lady Herbert’s eyes were veiled. She wanted to beg her sister to plead for Anne; yet at the same time she was silently begging the Queen to do nothing.
Little Jane Grey went quietly about the apartment. She knew what was happening. They would burn Mistress Anne Askew at the stake, and no one could do anything to save her.
Imaginative as she was, she felt that this terrible thing which was happening to Anne was happening to herself. She pictured herself in that cold and airless cell; she pictured herself facing her judges at the Guildhall.
That night she dreamed that she stood in the square at Smithfield, and that it was about her own feet that the men were piling faggots.
She was with the Prince when Princess Elizabeth came to see him.
Elizabeth was a young lady now of thirteen years. There were secrets in her eyes; she wore clothes to call attention to the color of her hair, and rings to set off the beauty of her hands. She could never look at a man
