to the leadings of the new light that had broken on him, or whether
to wrench himself from it. Was this, which seemed to him truth and
deliverance, verily the heresy respecting which rumours had come to
horrify the country convents? If he had only heard of it from
Tibble Wry-mouth, he would have doubted, in spite of its power over
him, but he had heard it from a man, wise, good, and high in place,
like Dean Colet. Yet to his further perplexity, his uncle had
spoken of Colet as jesting at Wolsey's table. What course should he
take? Could he bear to turn away from that which drew his soul so
powerfully, and return to the bounds which seem to him to be grown
so narrow, but which he was told were safe? Now that Stephen was
settled, it was open to him to return to St. Elizabeth's College,
but the young soul within him revolted against the repetition of
what had become to him unsatisfying, unless illumined by the
brightness he seemed to have glimpsed at.

But Ambrose had gone through much unwonted fatigue of late, and
while thus musing he fell asleep, with his head against the wall.
He was half wakened by the sound of voices, and presently became
aware that two persons were examining the walls, and comparing the
paintings with some others, which one of them had evidently seen.
If he had known it, it was with the Dance of Death on the bridge of
Lucerne.

"I question," said a voice that Ambrose had heard before, "whether
these terrors be wholesome for men's souls."

"For priests' pouches, they be," said the other, with something of a
foreign accent.