abjuring it; 'as if,' he says, 'there were no difference between a nocent and an innocent, between a guilty and a not guilty.'[1]
He refused resolutely, and was remanded to prison, in open violation of the law. The Bishop, in conjunction with Sir Thomas More,[2] sent for him from time to time, submitting him to private examinations, which again were illegal; and urged the required confession, in order, as Philips says, 'to save the Bishop's credit.'
The further they advanced, the more difficult it was to recede; and the Bishop at length, irritated at his failure, concluded the process with an arbitrary sentence of excommunication. From this sentence, whether just or unjust, there was then no appeal, except to the Pope. The wretched man, in virtue of it, was no longer under the protection of the law, and was committed to the Tower, where he languished for three years, protesting, but protesting fruitlessly, against the tyranny which had crushed him, and clamouring for justice in the deaf ears of pedants who knew not what justice meant.
If this had occurred at the beginning of the century, the prisoner would have been left to die, as countless multitudes had already died, unheard, uncared for, unthought of; the victim not of deliberate cruelty, but of that frightfullest portent, folly armed with power. Happily the years of his imprisonment had been years of swift revolution. The House of Commons had be-
