tion, he would swear; in the mean time, he repeated, very explicitly, that he judged no one—he spoke only for himself.
An opening seemed to be offered in these expressions which was caught at by Cranmer's kind-hearted casuistry. If Sir Thomas More could not condemn others for taking the oath, the Archbishop said, Sir Thomas More could not be sure that it was sin to take it; while his duty to his King and to the Parliament was open and unquestioned.
More hesitated for an instant, but he speedily recovered his firmness. He had considered what he ought to do, he said; his conscience was clear about it, and he could say no more than he had said already. They continued to argue with him, but without effect; he had made up his mind; the victory, as he said, had been won.
Cromwell was deeply affected. In his passionate regret, he exclaimed that he had rather his only son had lost his head than that More should have refused the oath. No one knew better than Cromwell that intercession would be of no further use; that he could not himself advise the King to give way. The Parliament, after grave consideration, had passed a law which they held necessary to secure the peace of the country; and two persons of high rank refused obedience to it, whose example would tell in every English household. Either, therefore, the Act was not worth the parchment on which it was written, or the penalties of it must be enforced: no middle way, no compromise, no acquiescent
