The King’s face moved slightly, but he said nothing.

—­“Who is awaiting trial for destroying evidence.  It is that, at least, your Grace, that is asserted against him.  But it has not been proved.  Master Torridon here tells me, your Highness, that it cannot be proved, but that he wishes to acknowledge it freely on his son’s behalf.”

Henry’s eyes shot back again at the old man, ran over the others, and settled again on Cranmer’s face, who was standing beside him with his back to the window.

“He is here to plead for your Grace’s clemency.  He wishes to lay before your Grace that his son erred through over-faithfulness to Mr. Cromwell’s cause; and above all that the evidence so destroyed has not affected the course of justice—­”

“God’s Body!” jarred in the harsh voice suddenly, “it has not.  Nor shall it.”

Cranmer waited a moment with downcast eyes; but the King was silent again.

“Master Torridon has persuaded me to come with him to your Grace to speak for him.  He is not accustomed—­”

“And who are these fellows?”

Chris felt those keen eyes running over him.

“This is Master Nicholas Maxwell,” explained the Archbishop, indicating him.  “Master Torridon’s son-in-law; and this, Mr. Herries—­”

“And the priest?” asked the King.

“The priest is Sir Christopher Torridon, living with his father at Overfield.”

“Ha! has he always lived there then?”

“No, your Grace,” said Cranmer smoothly, “he was a monk at Lewes until the dissolution of the house.”

“I have heard somewhat of his name,” mused Henry.  “What is it, sir, that I have beard of you?”

“It was perhaps Mr. Ralph Torridon’s name that your Grace—­” began Cranmer.

“Nay, nay, it was not.  What was it, sir?”

Chris’s heart was beating in his ears like a drum now.  It had come, then, that peril that had always been brooding on the horizon, and which he had begun to despise.  He had thought that there could be no danger in his going to the King; it was so long since Lewes had fallen, and his own part had been so small.  But his Grace’s memory was good, it seemed!  Danger was close to him, incarnate in that overwhelming presence.  He said nothing, but stood awaiting detection.

“It is strange,” said Henry.  “I have forgot.  Well, my Lord?”

“I have told your Grace all,” explained the Archbishop.  “Mr. Ralph Torridon has not yet been brought to trial, and his father hopes that your Grace will take into consideration these two things:  that it was a mistake of over-faithfulness that his son committed; and that it has not hindered the course of justice.”

“Well, well,” said Henry, “and that sounds to be in reason.  We have none too much of either faithfulness or justice in these days.  And there is no other charge against the fellow?”

“There is no other charge, your Grace.”