"Now to the Viscount Rochford.

Had other than he

purchased, whose life think you had been menaced?"

"I know not. Perchance mine."

Barret laughed derisively.

"Not-"

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Speak out, lord duke. What hinders you?" "The King's!"

The two looked at one another a moment. Barret trying to read in Norfolk's face, whether the astonishment depicted therein was feigned or real.

"I cannot fathom Rochford's motive," said the nobleman; "but what has aught of this with thy warning to me?" "Much."

"Pray thee, let me know."

"This Dominican, this chapman of Indulgencies, came he not to the Duke of Norfolk? who bestowed him not among them of the order, but-"

"Have I not told thee, father," hastily interposed the Duke,that at his own wish I placed him with the Benedictines, and out of London."

"True, your grace. And although the Benedictines believe, would Henry or the world, should his presence and his purpose in England be known?"

The Duke bit his lip.

"By my honour

"Your grace, your grace," cried Barret, and the tall figure of the monk grew taller, and his form more commanding, as he looked upon the Duke; "said I not, I believed. Then spare all further speech."

"Tell me, then, wherefore Rochford purchased the Indulgence? with him I well understand Henry's life is sacred. But was it to shame the Church? or-"

"Not so.

Rome?"

"Not he!

Know you who stayed the messenger to

It was not he, father.

know quickly-who was't?"

"He-Lord Rochford."

Answer: let me

The Duke shouted, "Ha! ha!" and pacing violently up and down the chamber, spoke between whiles to the priest: "Now, monk, have we him. Ha! ha! I go to the Council anon, and will divulge it. But stay-proofs! have you proofs? You nod. Good. Ah! Lady Anne, will I feed my

vengeance your proud, scoffing brother shall fall, and you with him, I trust. There shall be no more Lutherans then in England. All, all shall go. Surrey-ay, he shall go likewise, though he be my son, if he break not with them. But Rochford; oh, my lord viscount! thou art lost! lost! lost!" "I know not that," spoke Barret, coldly.

The Duke started; and, turning eagerly to the priest, demanded, "Know not? not lost? What mean you? have you no proofs ?"

"Ay; but my Lord Rochford holds-"

"What?"

"The Pope's Indulgence!"

Norfolk was confounded: he could not accuse Rochford without exposing the Dominican's visit. And its purport? Lord Rochford's offence were venial, indeed, in comparison. And, however innocent he, Norfolk, might be respecting the Italian's mission-what could he give but his word in proof? No more: would that weigh suspicion down? Henry's suspicions! And Norfolk cursed in his heart the fate of him that served a tyrant.

"Duke of Norfolk," said Barret, "we can do nothing against this man. We are taken in our own toils."

"Say thine," cried the Duke, bursting with passion, "or Rome's; but not mine."

"Thou art too angry, my son: I sorrow for thee." The Duke looked black at the priest, but the latter continued: "Call it thine, or mine, or ours: simply, 'tis this-we are fooled, and know it, and can say or do nothing."

There was a silence for a short while. The Duke, who had thrown himself into a chair, sat moodily looking upon the ground, or playing abstractedly with the long dagger in his girdle, which he now and anon half drew from its sheath, then returning quickly, as if childishly amusing himself with the sharp snap the embossed guard rang upon the mouthpiece of the scabbard. But not so were his thoughts engaged; for, raising his eyes suddenly, he asked, "Know you how we may destroy these Lutherans?"

Barret spoke not; but with his eyes questioned the Duke.

Barret started: his pale face coloured as if his companion had read the secret of his heart. What that secret was, the course of this tale will tell.

"Hark thee, father: Catharine was lost by Anne's beauty. May not a fresher beauty our Henry loves change-lose her?"

The priest drew a deep breath: "It were not unlikely. Go on.

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“I have noted of late," said Norfolk, "the king's eye ranges. It never did so a little while gone. Speaks that not well for my plan?"

66

Perhaps. But who is the beauty shall supplant Anne ?” "I have heard of one Jane, the daughter of Sir John Seymour."

"Of Wolf Hall, Wiltshire?" questioned Barret. "Ay! knowest thou her?"

"I have seen the lady."

"She is beautiful, is she not?" asked Norfolk. have reported me so."

"Men

"I am a priest, son; but if my eyes and men's tongues be true, she is beautiful."

"More so than Anne?"

"Let Henry judge.'

Norfolk smiled.

But," spoke Barret, musingly, "in what will this benefit us? The lady is of a pestilent family-arrant Lutherans. I see not, even should harm come at our foes, that good would arrive to us."

"Leave that to time. Can we but strike a blow at the Boleyns, it will be something."

The monk drew nigh to the nobleman, and, bending down, spoke in a low tone: "It is not a bad plan to pander the Duke gave a movement in his chair-"to Henry's love; but what says your grace to play upon his passions?" "Which?"

"And honest."

"Need we be, lord duke?"

Norfolk opened his eyes to their utmost width; but the discoveries of the immoralities of the monks at the visitation

of the lesser monasteries, albeit the Catholics affected to turn a deaf ear to the charges, had stripped the clergy of much olden credit.

"What would you?"

"A spy about the person of the Lady Anne."

Norfolk reflected a moment: "I know of none upon whom I could pin faith."

"Was there not question of the want of a minstrel to the Court?"

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"Ay!" replied the Duke. "Your grace, I have.” "His name?"

"Mark Smeaton."

"And hast thou such."

"I will speak of him to Sir Francis Weston, Gentleman of the Chamber. Thou shalt hear from me, sir priest, shortly. Your plan mates well with mine. Beauty and guile-Jane Seymour and Mark Smeaton."

VII.

THE VISITATION.

Henry had not failed to carry out his plan for the suppression of the religious houses: beginning with the lesser monasteries, those below the estimated value of £200 per annum. Visitors had been appointed to inquire into the various fraternities, and to report upon the same; and the reports, which collected were published under the title of the "Black Book of the Monasteries," without going into details that would scare the reader from further perusal of this story-described the religious houses as little cities of Sardanapalus and of Sodom, and the nunneries as seraglios. It is likely enough that, amid the ignorant-for ignorance was among the charges brought against the monks there may have been some learned; but when that learning was solely employed in the composition of theological and controversial works, which, thank God, were mostly if not wholly, in Latin, little benefit on the first count accrued unto the world, and, upon the second, little injury. Other charges against the monks were their rivalries, malice, and cruelties in their own communities; their ambition, pride, and avarice; their false legends, fraudulent practices, tricks, and impositions; their lies and blasphemies; and, lastly, as

at the present, the vast possessions of the Church, incompatible with the Church of the Apostles; its determination to impede all advancement; its hostility to letters and the education of the people; its love of darkness. The “Black Book of the Monasteries" exists no longer, being destroyed in the reign of Mary; but there exist men who would willingly regain, not the book, but the monasteries. Yet, may we believe, such shall never be, that men shall no more restore monachism to England, than they shall rebuild those "Cities of the Plains," destroyed in their sins and by

God's wrath.

Men have argued that among this band of impostors, the monks, there were men good and true; but what a folly, what a blindness must be upon that man can believe that, out of a pit of foulness, men could come forth clean. It were less difficult to believe an honest woman from the stews, than that out of a monastery might come a true priest. When, spread throughout the land, were shameful cheats, winking statues or weeping pictures; Sons of God and Virgin Marys, to bend and bow as the monk pulled the string. When more or less of this-I have no word to express what was shown in every place of worship, can men believe that any of the monks were good-i. e. ignorant of these practices? In the words of the Scriptures, God said, "And if there be ten good men, I will not destroy the cities," and there were not ten. Ay! there was not one good and true among these monks that made God's holy name a lie, a delusion, and a snare. What can we think? -simply, that the monks believed not in God.

The refectory, at the Abbey of St. Albyns, was prepared for the mid-day meal: a long stone room or hall, with many pretensions to architectural beauties; the raised dais, where the Abbot and Prior, with other dignitaries or noble guests, sat, being highly embellished with carved stone-work and ornamental railing; the ascent thereto was by fifteen steps, low and broad, with a wide landing-place at each five. Adown the middle of the room were two long tables, with forms at the sides for the occupation of the monks; at the further end of the hall ran a stone dresser, for the convenience of those serving the tables; a window, through which the meats passed from the kitchen, being upon the same side. Adjoining was the lavatory, in which the monks washed