Then the voice began again, at first
confused and buzzing, then articulate; and he remembered.
"Now, then," said the voice, "you have had but a taste of it...." ("A
taste of it; a taste of it." The phrase repeated itself like the catch
of a song.... When he regained his attention, the sentence had moved
on.)
"... these questions. I will put them to you again from the beginning.
You will give your answer to each. And if my lord is not satisfied, we
must try again."
"My lord!" thought the priest. He rolled his eyes round a little
further. (He dared not move his head; the sinews of his throat burned
like red-hot steel cords at the thought of it.) And he saw a little
table floating somewhere in the dark; a candle burned on it; and a
melancholy face with dreamy eyes was brightly illuminated.... That was
my lord Shrewsbury, he considered....
"... in what month that you first became privy to the plot against her
Grace?"
(Sense was coming back to him again now. He remembered what he had said
just now.)
"It was in August," he whispered, "in August, I think; two years ago.
Mr. Babington wrote to me of it."
"And you went to the Queen of the Scots, you say?"
"Yes."
"And what did you there?"
"I gave the message."
"What was that?"
"... That Mr. Babington was her servant always; that he regretted
nothing, save that he had failed. He begged her to pray for his soul,
and for all that had been with him in the enterprise.
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