Indeed, he was fond of the girl, whom he had known from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he ill could bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood.
Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now be mended.

Also, as she was dead, her inheritance would, he thought, fall into his hands without further trouble, for he--a mitred Abbot with a seat among the Lords of the realm--had friends in London, who, for a fee, could stifle inquiry into all this far-off business.
No, no, he must not be faint-hearted, who, after all, had much for which to be thankful.

Meanwhile the cause went on--that great cause of the threatened Church to which he had devoted his life.

Henry the heretic would fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved him well, would invade and take England.

He would yet live to see the Holy Inquisition at work at Westminster, and himself--yes, himself; had it not been hinted to him ?--enthroned at Canterbury, the Cardinal's red hat he coveted upon his head, and--oh, glorious thought!--perhaps afterwards wearing the triple crown at Rome.
Rain was falling heavily when the Abbot, with his escort of two monks and half-a-dozen men-at-arms, rode up to Cranwell.