neither coal nor candle."

Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it,
sick and white.

"This is a judgment! O, a great stroke!" he sobbed, and rattled
off a leash of prayers.

Hatch meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and knelt down.

"Ay, Bennet," said the priest, somewhat recovering, "and what may
this be? What enemy hath done this?"

"Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it is written upon with
words," said Dick.

"Nay," cried the priest, "this is a foul hearing! John Amend-All!
A right Lollardy word. And black of hue, as for an omen! Sirs,
this knave arrow likes me not. But it importeth rather to take
counsel. Who should this be? Bethink you, Bennet. Of so many
black ill-willers, which should he be that doth so hardily outface
us? Simnel? I do much question it. The Walsinghams? Nay, they
are not yet so broken; they still think to have the law over us,
when times change. There was Simon Malmesbury, too. How think ye,
Bennet?"

"What think ye, sir," returned Hatch, "of Ellis Duckworth?"

"Nay, Bennet, never. Nay, not he," said the priest. "There cometh
never any rising, Bennet, from below--so all judicious chroniclers