horror at the knife. The smile of a gratified devil crept over the old man’s face, and he said, without changing his attitude or his occupation —

“Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?”

The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.

“Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!”

A shudder shook the boy’s frame, and his face blenched.

Then he struggled again to free himself — turning and twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately — but uselessly