The devotion of these poor people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries.
"Bless ye! bless ye! my children," he cried; "repine not for me, for I bear my cross with resignation.

It is for me to bewail your lot, much fearing that the flock I have so long and so zealously tended will fall into the hands of other and less heedful pastors, or, still worse, of devouring wolves.

Bless ye, my children, and be comforted.

Think of the end of Abbot Paslew, and for what he suffered." "Think that he was a traitor to the king, and took up arms in rebellion against him," cried the sheriff, riding up, and speaking in a loud voice; "and that for his heinous offences he was justly condemned to death." Murmurs arose at this speech, but they were instantly checked by the escort.
"Think charitably of me, my children," said the abbot; "and the blessed Virgin keep you steadfast in your faith.

Benedicite!" "Be silent, traitor, I command thee," cried the sheriff, striking him with his gauntlet in the face.
The abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he controlled himself, and answered meekly,-- "Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddyll, when I saved thee from the flood." "Which flood thou thyself caused to burst forth by devilish arts," rejoined the sheriff.