'The Bishop of Rome--' Thomas Cranmer began a hesitating speech. In the pause after the words the King himself hesitated, as if he poised between a heavy rage and a sardonic humour. He deemed, however, that the humour could the more terrify the Archbishop-and, indeed, he was so much upon the joyous side in those summer days that he had forgotten how to browbeat. 'Our holy father, ' he corrected the Archbishop. 'Or I will say my holy father, since thou art a heretic--' Cranmer's eyes had always the expression of a man's who looked at approaching calamity, but at the King's words his whole face, his closed lips, his brows, the lines from his round nose, all drooped suddenly downwards. 'Your Grace will have me write a letter to the-to his-to him--' The downward lines fixed themselves, and from amongst them the panic-stricken eyes made a dumb appeal to the griffins and crowns of his dark green hangings, for they were afraid to turn to the King. Henry retained his heavy look of jocularity: he jumped at a weighty gibe- 'My Grace will have thy Grace write a letter to his Holiness.'