They had heard, indeed, of a
priest or two having been sent abroad into exile for his faith; but the
most of them thought it a thing incredible that in England at this time
a man should suffer death for it. Fines and imprisonment were one thing;
to such they had become almost accustomed. But death was another matter
altogether. And for a priest! Was it possible that the days of King
Harry were coming back; and that every Catholic henceforth should go in
peril of his life as well as of liberty?
The folks settled themselves then in their seats; one or two men drank
off a glass of wine.
"I have heard from a good friend of mine in London," went on the priest,
looking at his paper, "one who followed every step of the trial; and
was present at the death. They suffered at Tyburn.... However, I will
tell you what he says. He is a countryman of mine, from Yorkshire; as
was Mr. Nelson, too.
"'Mr. Nelson was taken in London on the first of December last year. He
was born at Shelton, and was about forty-three years old; he was the son
of Sir Nicholas Nelson.'
"So much," said the priest, looking up from his paper, "I knew myself. I
saw him about four years ago just before he went to Douay, and he came
back to England as a priest, a year and a half after. Mr. Sherwood was
not a priest; he had been at Douay, too, but as a scholar only.... Well,
we will speak of Mr. Nelson first. This is what my friend says."
He spread the paper before him on the table; and Marjorie, looking past
her mother, saw that his hands shook as he spread it.
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