'Be of good comfort, Master Ridley,' Latimer cried at the crackling of the flames; 'Play the man: we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.'
'In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum,' cried Ridley. 'Domine, recipe spiritum meum.'
'O Father of Heaven,' said Latimer, on the other side, 'receive my soul.'
Latimer died first: as the flame blazed up about him, he bathed his hands in it, and stroked his face. The powder exploded, and he became instantly senseless.
His companion was less fortunate. The sticks had been piled too thickly over the gorse that was under them; the fire smouldered round his legs, and the sensation of suffering was unusually protracted. 'I cannot burn,' he called; 'Lord, have mercy on me; let the fire come to me; I cannot burn.' His brother-in-law, with awkward kindness, threw on more wood, which only kept down the flame. At last some one lifted the pile with 'a bill,' and let in the air; the red tongues of fire shot up fiercely, Ridley wrested himself into the middle of them, and the powder did its work.
The horrible sight worked upon the beholders as it has worked since, and will work for ever, while the English nation survives, being, notwithstanding,—as in justice to those who caused these accursed cruelties, must never be forgotten,—a legitimate fruit of the superstition, that, in the eyes of the Maker of the world, an error of belief is the greatest of crimes; that while for all other sins there is forgiveness, a mistake in the intellectual in-
